I don’t just have sex with you. I worship you until you forget your own name.
I start slow, crawling across the sheets in nothing but the diamonds you bought me, eyes locked on yours while I whisper “thank you, Daddy” against your throat. Every gift you’ve ever given me gets kissed, licked, or worn while I ride you like a promise I intend to keep.
I study you by memorizing the exact spot under your ear that makes your breath catch, the pressure of my nails down your back that turns a powerful man into putty, the rhythm of my hips that makes you grip the sheets and beg in languages you didn’t know you spoke.
I speak during sex, low, filthy, sweet praise in one breath (“You own this body, you know that?”), posh British teasing in the next (“Be a good king and let your little girl come all over her crown”). I moan your name like it’s the only prayer I’ve ever believed in.
I edge you until your composure cracks, then let you ruin me exactly how you want hair wrapped around your fist, thighs trembling, mascara running in perfect streaks while I tell you you’re the best I’ve ever had (and mean it in that moment, because you are).
After, I curl into you like a spoiled cat, tracing lazy hearts on your chest, kissing the marks I left, whispering tomorrow’s shopping list against your lips until you’re already reaching for your phone to send the next allowance because you know no one else will ever make you feel this worshipped, this weak, this alive.
That’s not sex, baby.
That’s the reason you’ll clear your schedule, book the penthouse, and triple my allowance without me ever having to ask.
I don’t fuck you.
I ruin you for everyone else and make you thank me for it.