The first stroke is barely there. A light, sensual glide of the warm brush just below my collarbone. Sticky and sweet and unexpected.
I shiver.
And then his mouth is on me again, tongue lapping it away with a low groan, like he’s savoring it.
“Fuck, you taste better than anything I’ve ever made,” he mutters against my skin.
Then another line, lower this time. Between my breasts. He paints teasingly, watching the trail bead and drip just slightly before he bends to lick it clean.
I gasp, arching into him, every part of me strung tight with need.
He brushes again, over the swell of my breast this time, right above the nipple. And when he licks it off, his mouth lingers, lips dragging over sensitive skin before sucking the peak into his mouth, hot and wet.
I moan, loud and breathless, hips shifting against the counter.
“More?” he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked, the brush poised again in his hand like a paintbrush over canvas.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Fuck, yes.”
He paints a line down my stomach, slow and hot, watching my body react, my muscles flutter under the sensation.
And then… lower.
He meets my eyes as he dips the brush between my thighs, the bristles warm and slick as they stroke over swollen, sensitive flesh.
I suck in a breath so hard it feels like it might break me.
He watches every second, how I shake, how I spread wider for him without thinking, how wet I already am.
And then his mouth replaces the brush.
He licks the honey from my pussy like it’s the finest thing he’s ever tasted, slow and filthy and relentless. His tongue slides through me, swirling over my clit, then back down to fuck me with long, languid strokes.
The counter is digging into my spine, but I can’t care. I’m too far gone, a moaning, trembling mess under his mouth.
“Fuck, Knox.”
I’m gasping again, chest heaving, hips rolling on the cool steel countertop as he drags me through sensation after sensation.
The contrast of his warm tongue and the soft flick of the brush, sometimes featherlight, sometimes firm, is maddening. He alternates between pleasure and torment, between sweetness and heat, until I’m panting, moaning, pushing against the edge of sanity.
Every stroke of the brush makes me twitch. Every swipe of his tongue feels like he’s rewiring my nerves.
And right when I think I can’t take another second without him inside me, he changes the game.
He straightens, eyes molten and mouth slick, then reaches behind him to grab something from the table. One of the silk ribbons we use to tie off napkins for events, deep crimson, soft, and satiny.
My breath catches as he circles behind me.
“Hands,” he murmurs.
I offer them without hesitation. He loops the ribbon around my wrists, binding them gently but firmly behind my back. There’s tension, enough to make me arch, to lift my breasts and leave me exposed and breathless.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice thick with anticipation.
“I think so,” I pant.
He laughs, that low, wicked rumble that vibrates right down to where I’m aching. It’s not fair, the way that sound alone can make my body clench, pulse,need.
