Back To The Feet

The lights are low, the sheets a rumpled mess, and Anya's sitting right in the middle of the chaos. She wiggles those soft, bare feet until they wrap around him just right. A sly little grin, a few teasing strokes, and he's standing straighter than good sense allows. He can’t stop himself. Kneels there, kissing her arches like it’s the first time he’s ever seen them. He works each toe with slow reverence—tiny licks, warm breaths—because if it belongs to her, he worships it on principle. Her grin widens every time he nips her heel. Only when the warmth between her legs spikes does he climb back over her. One careful shove and he sinks straight in, almost smug at how easy she takes him. Anya sighs, hooks her calf over his hip, and starts driving the pace. Short and sharp, deeper on the downstroke, laughing through every delicious slam. Foot tease, full lunges, gasping finish—two people burning fuel they didn’t know they had.