“Look at you,” he drawls, his voice slow and thick. “So beautiful like this …”
The moment his tongue touches me, my body arches instinctively, a sound escaping my throat that’s half gasp, half plea. He swipes his tongue slowly from my entrance up to my clit, one long, deliberate stroke that makes my whole-body shudder. His beard grazes my inner thighs, rough against soft skin, and the contrast makes me shiver. Every stroke of his tongue feels as though it's freeing me from everything I’ve been keeping bottled up.
He doesn’t rush; he savours. His mouth moves with purpose, lips and tongue working in tandem, and when he sucks gently at my sensitive clit, I cry out, breathless and undone.
My fingers tighten around the ropes of the swing, knuckles white, legs trembling. I can feel the heat building low in my belly, curling tighter with every pass of his tongue, every worshipping kiss.
Then his hand slides up my leg again, slow and sure, and I feel his fingers press against me, slipping inside with the same tenderness and hunger. He curls them just right, and my body responds instantly, hips lifting, breath stuttering.
I’m close.
The thought pulses through me like a warning, and before I know it, the tension is too much, and I break.
The world around me blurs as pleasure crashes over me in strong, eager waves. I cry out his name as my body trembles—breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.
My arousal spills onto his tongue, and he makes a sound I can barely hear, low and hungry.
I’m soaked now, but he doesn’t stop.
He holds me through it, mouth and fingers moving in a perfect rhythm, like he knows exactly how to satisfy me.
When I finally come down, with my chest heaving and legs still shaking, he pulls back just enough to look up at me through wild eyes and glistening lips.
“You taste so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse.
He slides his fingers out of me, slowly through the wetness between my thighs, then he straightens, rising to stand in front of me. His eyes never leave mine as he lifts his hand, pressing two fingers gently to my lips.
“Taste how sweet you are for me, Stormy.”
I wrap my mouth around them, sucking softly, tasting myself on his skin. A hum of appreciation echoes in my throat.
“Fuck,” he groans. “That beautiful mouth of yours …”
He moves closer, his body pressing against mine, and his voice drops to a whisper.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined those lips wrapped around me … around my cock, your tongue tasting every inch.”
My hands reach for his belt, fingers trembling with urgency, but his shoot down, catching mine before I can undo the buckle. I feel him, hard and straining beneath his jeans, and the ache in me deepens.
“I want to taste you too, Ford,” I whisper, voice thick with need.
His grip doesn’t tighten, but it holds. Just enough to stop me.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, low and rough.
“Oh.”
The word slips out, small and uncertain. My face falls before I can stop it. Rejection blooms sharp and sudden. Did I misread him? Does he not want it, want me, despite everything he’d said?
He sees it. Of course he does. His hands release mine and rise to cradle my face, thumbs brushing the heat from my cheeks.
“Stormy,” he breathes “This was about you. Not me.”
I search his eyes, still unsure.
“But … I mean, I just thought … maybe you didn’t …”
His breath catches, and then he’s leaning in, forehead resting against mine.
