“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, just—..” Rumi whines, broken and cracking with her true octave. Elongated demon hand cinched tight around your wrist where it’s pinned to the back edge of the couch. Hips rocking not-so-subtly against your ass in hope of soothing the ache planted deep in her gut, feet planted wide behind yours in hopes of better leverage.

She’d been like this for a week straight.

The poor girl had tried her hardest to not get you involved these past few days, avoiding physical touch entirely either the exception of a few kisses when she missed you too much. Maybe she shouldn’t have allowed those exceptions.

Because now? Now she’s rutting against you like a dog in heat, lavender markings pulsing faintly with light once she caught on you perfectly, thighs shuddering as if they’d give out and collapse under her entirely.

“Oh devils, babe..”