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Excerpt

The Twin Flame

It’s been 2 years since she has left her Twin Flame, the man who ignited her soul.

You don’t knock.

Two years, and you’re done pretending the need went away.

You walk in like a storm -- eyes locked, lips set, fire curling off your skin.

He’s there. Waiting in all his glory. He looks older, more tired but still beautiful.

He doesn’t move, just stares -- and for a heartbeat, it’s silent.

Then your coat hits the floor. You cross the room, slow and deliberate. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak -- maybe apologize, maybe lie –(probably lie) but you shut him up with your kiss.

A kiss that tastes like anger and want and unfinished business.

“You don’t get to speak,” you whisper, your breath hot on his lips.

“You had two years your words never matched your actions.”

He’s stunned, hands barely grazing your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You grab them -- hard -- and push him back, slamming him into the wall.

“I’m not here for closure. I’m here to remember.”

Your mouth is on his neck now -- biting, sucking, dragging your teeth down to his chest. You push his shirt up, nails leaving angry little lines in their wake.

“Did you miss me?” you ask, voice low, dark, teasing, “Or just my pussy and the way I made you feel?”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His mouth is open, gasping, his eyes wild. You pull down his sweats, never breaking eye contact. He is already hard. It sticks out bold and you catch it without hesitation, sliding down slowly, you don’t use your hands, you never use your hands with him, you know how he likes it.

Your eyes stay locked on his as you time the base of your throat tightening. You feel your eyes water not from discomfort but from devotion. He is the one man you loved to please. He hisses, his head tipping back, and when his eyes roll . And then you suck slow and deliberate, a rhythm made of memory and need, you build speed closing your eyes remembering how much you love his taste and your pussy pulses and clenches and screams for him. She wants to be filled and fucked by him and only him again.

You push him towards the bedroom climb on top of him like you never left. And the second you sink down onto him -- your bodies finally reunited, flesh remembering flesh -- it’s like something ancient cracks open between you.

The rhythm is not sweet.

It’s not patient.

It’s two years of silence, of dreams soaked in sweat, of knowing no one else came close.

You grind harder -- hips meeting his with a slap that echoes in the room. Your moans are shameless. Raw. Full of everything you didn’t say for 730 days.

“I fucking hate how good you still feel,” you spit, panting.

“Then use me,” he growls back. “Take it. Take all of me.”

You do. You devour him. Your fingers on his chest, your teeth on his shoulder, your nails in his back.

You ride him until your thighs shake, until his arms wrap around you like he’s trying to merge with you -- until you both 

explode together, breathless, wrecked, claiming what was always yours.

The room is still except for your breath and his.

You’re both tangled -- skin sticky, bodies trembling from the high that neither of you expected to survive. You’re straddling him, still pulsing from the aftershocks, your cheek resting against his chest as it rises and falls like ocean waves crashing after the storm.

“Say something,” you murmur, not sure if you even want him to.

He doesn’t. Not right away. His fingers just trail lightly down your spine -- slow, reverent, like he’s memorizing the curve of your back all over again.

“I thought time would kill this,” he finally says. “I thought I could forget what it was like to feel you like this.”

You lift your head, watching him.

His face is soft now. No walls. No ego. Just eyes so full of ache it nearly makes you dizzy.

“But I never did,” he whispers. “You’re still under my skin. In my fucking bones.”

You don’t answer. You just smirk, cock your head, and whisper, “Show me.”

And suddenly--

He moves. His hands tighten on your hips, and without warning, he flips you.

Fast. Effortless. Your back hits the mattress with a gasp and a shocked laugh that’s swallowed immediately by his 

mouth.

He grabs my wrists and pins them over your head with one hand -- the other sliding down your thigh, up your waist, 

until it’s under your ass, pulling you up just enough for him to thrust into you, hard.

You cry out -- more shocked than hurt -- and he smirks against your jaw.

“That sound? I’ve dreamed about it.”

His rhythm is savage now. Deep. Precise. Perfect. He was made to be inside of me. His hips slap against yours, and you can feel him everywhere -- filling you, punishing you, worshipping you all at once.

You try to move -- to touch him, kiss him, reach up -- but he won’t let go of your wrists.

“No,” he whispers. “You asked for this. You wanted this. Now take it.”

Your moans are shameless. Loud. Desperate.

He leans down, licking the sweat off your neck like he needs to taste every inch of your skin. Then he bites -- just hard enough to mark you.

“You think two years made me soft?” he growls.“You think I forgot how to fuck you?”

You arch under him, begging for more without even speaking.

And oh, he gives it to you.

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thighs and push them back -- folding you in, deeper, hitting that spot that makes you see stars and scream his name like a prayer.

His pace is relentless. His eyes never leave yours.

“You belong to me when you come,” he whispers. “Don’t forget that.”

And when you do -- hard, body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream sheets soaked -- he follows with a guttural moan,

collapsing on top of you, panting, trembling, and still somehow hard inside you.

You breathe out a broken laugh, still trembling.

-- breath hot, skin slick. But you’re already slipping out from under him. No words. No tenderness. Just done.

You move like a woman with a plane to catch -- calm, deliberate, unreachable.

He watches you from the bed, his chest rising and falling, confusion cutting across his face. He starts to speak, then stops. He pushes up on his elbows, scowling now.

“Seriously? After that? You just barge into my house, fuck me like that, and now you’re just leaving?”

You glance back at him, that same smirk on your lips -- sharp now, clean. “Well,” you say, , “three is a crowd.”

And you walk out.

ZODIAC SEDUCTION: Copyright © 2025 Mandi Shelly. All rights reserved.

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About the Author

Mandi Shelly is an author, speaker, and truth-teller who writes for women who refuse to shrink. Her debut book, 40 Is the New F Word, is a bold and hilarious fictional biography that redefines what it means to be sexy, seen, and powerful after 40.

Her latest project, Twin Flame: Zodiac Lover Chronicles, is a sizzling erotic fiction series that explores love, lust, and spiritual awakening through the lens of the zodiac. Each installment dives into a different sign, blending astrological insight with raw sensuality and emotional depth.

When she’s not writing, she’s working with her amazing clients, hanging out with her grandbabies, traveling, paddleboarding, and having deep (and sometimes dirty) conversations over coffee or cocktails.

She believes in epic love, feminine power, and rewriting the story—at any age, any size, and always on her own terms.

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