“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your hands.” I confess.
His gaze flickers, and he leans in again, voice low and rough.
“What about my mouth?”
Then another kiss. His lips part mine, and when he nibbles at my bottom lip, I moan softly into him, my fingers digging into his waist as though he can anchor me in this moment forever.
His fingers brush the bare skin of my thigh. He moves slowly, tentatively, like he’s asking with every inch. The hem of my dress lifts, soft fabric brushing my skin as his hand glides upwards, and when I part my legs for him, just slightly, just enough, he looks at me with such aching desire, I almost plead.
His fingers trail lazily over the thin fabric of my underwear, the touch teasing and devastating. I’m already wet, aching, and the moment his fingertips brush against me, I feel the shift in him. His breath catches, and then he exhales, low and ragged.
“Fuck, Stormy,” he breathes, with thinly veiled control. His fingers pause, saturated now with proof of how much I need him. “You really do want this, don’t you?”
There’s no teasing in his tone now. Just awe. Just reverence.
I nod, unable to speak, my body already leaning into his touch, my breaths shallow and fast.
He slowly slides the fabric to the side, his fingers grazing against bare skin. He ghosts over my clit so sensually, my body trembles. Then, with the same hand, he presses forward, gentle but sure, and pushes two fingers inside me.
I let out a sound I couldn’t hold back if I tried, caught in raw pleasure. My head tips back, lips parted, the swing creaking beneath me as my body leans into the sensation.
Without hesitation, his free arm wraps around my waist, steadying me, holding me close as his fingers curl inside me. The strength in his grip on my waist contrasts with the tenderness of his touch, and it makes me feel safe, wanted, protected, undone.
He makes a strangled noise, and I feel the tension in him, the way his muscles tighten, the way his gaze burns into me like he’s trying to memorise every reaction.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You feel …”
He swallows hard, his breath warm against my cheek, searching my eyes. “I want to taste you.”
The words land like a spark in my chest. There’s something in the way he says it, like it’s not just hunger but worship. Like he’s asking for something sacred.
My breath stutters, and I feel the flush of heat spread across my skin. I don’t speak right away—I can’t, but my body answers for me, hips tilting slightly, legs parting just a little more.
His arm tightens around my waist, steadying me as the swing shifts beneath us. His fingers stay inside me, but his eyes are locked on mine, waiting, watching.
I nod, barely and he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper.
“I want to hear you say it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, as he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine.
I swallow hard, my breath catching in my throat. The words tremble on my lips, but I say them anyway, “taste me, Ford. Please,”
His throat bobs, and something shifts in his expression. Reverence, hunger, and restraint unravelling thread by thread.
“You’re going to need to hold on,” he says, wrapping my hands around the ropes of the swing.
I grip them tightly, fingers curling around the worn fibres as he leans close. He kisses the curve of my neck first, soft and lingering, his lips brushing just beneath my ear. Then lower, across my collarbone, each kiss desperately seductive. His hands slide up my sides, fingertips grazing the edge of my dress.
His hands brush tenderly over the swell of my breasts through the fabric, and his mouth follows, pressing a kiss just above the neckline, where skin meets cotton.
I shiver beneath him, the swing creaking softly, my body aching for more.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself to his knees in front of me, with his gaze locked on mine for the whole time. His hands slide up my thighs, firm and sure, and he hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear, pulling them down with care.
He looks down at me then. I feel exposed and open, but not afraid, not with the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something he’s been aching for.
He parts my legs a little more, his hands tender but insistent, and leans in to kiss the inside of one thigh. Then the other. The warmth of his breath skims over my core, teasing. Making me ache for the heat of his mouth—for the moment he finally gives in.
I whimper, hips shifting, and he glances up at me with a crooked smile.
