<b>Her Protest, My Hunger</b><br>She whispers,<br>“Don’t… you’ll lose yourself,”<br>a trembling laugh wrapped around the warning.<br>Her thighs tense,<br>as if to guard a secret garden,<br>but the bloom is already open,<br>perfume flooding the air.<br>“Wait—” she gasps,<br>fingers curling in my hair<br>instead of pushing me away.<br>Every syllable melts<br>against the rhythm of my tongue;<br>her protests dissolve into moans,<br>like sugar vanishing on heat.<br>She says <i>stop,</i><br>but her hips say <i>more.</i><br>And I —<br>devoted pilgrim at the altar of her pleasure —<br>know this feast was never meant<br>to be refused.<br><b>Too Good to Refuse</b><br>“Don’t… please,” she gasps,<br>voice trembling as if she means it.<br>Her thighs clamp around my face,<br>not to shut me out,<br>but to pull me deeper.<br>“You’ll make me lose control—”<br>her words spill out between broken moans,<br>her hips already betraying her.<br>I drag my tongue through her sweetness,<br>slow, then faster,

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