I sit cross-legged on the landing, sketchbook balanced on my knees, pencil darting across the page. The plan is coming together – lines, shapes, a vision I’m almost afraid to breathe on, in case it fades.
Then I hear her. The soft creak of the stair, the whisper of skin against the banister. When I glance up, Lilly Mays is there. Her red hair tumbles in loose waves, catching the golden glow of the hallway light, and her eyes – mischief mixed with warmth – lock on mine.
“What are you plotting, Deny?” she teases, descending until she’s level with me. She doesn’t ask permission before settling at my side, her bare thigh pressing firmly against mine.
“A plan,” I answer, clutching the paper to my chest in mock secrecy.
She laughs, low and husky, and reaches. I let her steal the sketch, though my attention is nowhere near the pencil marks anymore. She studies the lines, tracing one with her fingertip, and when her touch grazes the edge of my hand, a charge leaps between us.
Our voices soften, our jokes dissolve into pauses filled with glances. The distance between us shrinks until there is none – her mouth brushes mine, tentative, then bolder. The kiss deepens, drawing a shiver from me as her hand slides up my chest.
Suddenly we’re tangled, our lips colliding with urgency. My hands map the curve of her back, the swell of her hips, the arch of her body pressing greedily against mine. She moves with playful insistence, grinding closer, and my pulse races.
Clothes fall in quick succession – shirts tugged off, tossed carelessly to the floor. The landing becomes a scatter of cotton and denim, each piece a breadcrumb trail of our impatience. Lilly straddles me, her hair a fiery curtain around us as she moves. Her skin is warm silk under my roaming hands, her breath quickening with every brush of my fingers.
She leans back slightly, her perfect breasts bouncing with each breath, mesmerizing in their rhythm. The sight makes my chest tighten with hunger and awe all at once. We find a rhythm together – pressing, shifting, clutching, our bodies sparking like flint and steel.
The sketchbook lies discarded, its lines smudged by our frenzy. But the real design is unfolding here: heat, laughter, and the kind of closeness that redraws the world.
