I look up the line of his body, meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, almost black in the firelight, and the need in them is so raw, so open, it makes my own breath catch.
“Please,” he breathes. It’s a broken sound, ragged with want.
I don't make him wait. I take him into my mouth, and the world narrows to this: the salt of his skin, the weight of him on my tongue, the strangled sounds he makes in the back of his throat. I set a rhythm, slow and deep, building the tension coil by coil. His hips begin to move, a subtle, unconscious thrust that I meet with every downward stroke.
His fingers tighten in my hair. “Wila. God. I’m… I can’t…”
I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper still, and that’s it. He comes with a hoarse cry, his body bowing off the bed. I take everything he gives, a wave of salt and heat, a pure, unfiltered expression of his desire.
I stay with him until the tremors subside, then slowly release him. I move back up his body, pressing soft kisses along the way until I’m stretched out beside him. He pulls me in, his arms coming around me like he’s trying to fuse our bodies together.
He’s still breathing hard, his face buried in my neck. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the crackle of the fire and the pounding of my own heart.
"My turn", he says. "On your back, love!"
I obey, and he kneels between my legs, just looking.
His gaze is a physical thing, a touch that travels over every inch of me. He starts with my feet, strong hands kneading the arches, working their way up my calves. The pressure is firm, almost painful, but it’s a good kind of pain, the kind that melts into a deep, boneless pleasure.
He takes his time, methodical, thorough. When he reaches my thighs, I’m already trembling. He bypasses the place I need him most, moving to my hips, my stomach, the sensitive skin of mysides. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, a bowstring pulled to its limit.
He finally, finally moves lower. He runs a single finger through my folds, and I gasp. I’m soaked. I can feel the wetness on my thighs.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “All open and wanting.”
He leans down, and the first touch of his tongue on my pussy is a shock of pure sensation.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed.
He doesn't tease.
He doesn't hold back.
He devours me.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he feasts. He’s relentless, finding that swollen bundle of nerves and circling it with devastating precision.
The tension that’s been building inside me snaps. A hot wave of pleasure crashes over me, so intense it borders on pain. I’m lost, drowning in sensation, his name a ragged prayer on my lips.
He doesn’t stop.
He works me through the aftershocks, his tongue gentling, his hands stroking my quivering thighs. When I finally come back to myself, he’s moving up my body, settling his hips between my legs.
He’s hard again, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance.
He looks down at me, his expression raw and unguarded.
“I need you,” he says, and it’s not a statement of desire, but of fact, as simple and true as the need to breathe.
I reach up, cupping his face in my hands. “Then take me.”
He enters me in one slow, deep stroke.
We both moan at the sheer rightness of it. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that is both familiar and overwhelmingly new.
For a moment, he just stays there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against mine. We’re breathing the same air, our hearts beating in the same frantic rhythm.
He starts to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that stokes the fire inside me all over again.
