Get well soon!
You find me shivering, rain-soaked, and aching on your doorstep. Your hands are immediately on me, undressing me with a caregiver’s urgency that slowly melts into something hungrier. The warm bath, the candlelight, the jazz—every touch is a soothing prelude that ignites a deeper, feverish need. What begins as a therapeutic massage by the fire becomes a slow, deliberate unraveling; your fingers discover not just my knots but my burning, wet desperation.
Your lips follow, mapping my skin until I’m arching, begging. When you finally slide your cock into my slick heat from behind, the join is instantaneous, electric—a perfect, gasping fit. We move together in a frantic, carpeted blur of shared release, our climax a shuddering collapse into each other’s arms. As we drift off, skin to skin by the dying fire, the question lingers: was this just medicine for a sick day, or the start of a deliciously addictive sickness all its own?