"You don't have to—" she begins, but I silence her with a look.
"I need to," I correct her, lowering my mouth to her center. "I need to feel you come apart."
The first swipe of my tongue makes her arch off the bed, a soft cry escaping her lips. I hold her hips firmly, devouring her with focused intensity. Every moan, every twitch of her body drives me further, urges me to take her higher.
"Brian," she gasps, her hands finding my hair, tugging almost painfully. "God, yes."
I double my efforts, alternating between broad strokes and focusing attention where she needs it most. Her thighs start to tremble, and I know she's close. I slip a finger inside her, then another, curling them forward as I suck gently on the pearl of her clit.
She shatters with my name on her lips, her body clenching around my fingers, back arched in a perfect curve. I don't let up until she pushes weakly at my shoulders, oversensitive and gasping.
I move up her body, taking in her flushed face, her glazed eyes, and her swollen lips. In the glow of candlelight, she looks like something holy, something precious the universe has gifted to me.
"That was just the beginning," I promise her, settling my weight between her thighs. "The night is still young."
Chapter 6
Noa
His body above me anchors me in the storm. I'm still trembling from my orgasm, but Brian's eyes tell me he's nowhere near finished. Their blue intensity appears darker in the candlelight, hungry and focused entirely on me.
"Condom?" he asks, his voice strained with restraint.
I nod toward my nightstand. "Top drawer."
He reaches over, yanks it open, and discovers the small box tucked behind some notebooks and my blue metallic vibe. His eyebrow rises, a smirk playing at his lips as he extracts one.
"I see you’re also a fan of battery-powered rides, Noa." He tears the condom open with his teeth. "Just know that I’m fully charged."
My cheeks flush, but I refuse to feel embarrassed. "A woman should be prepared for... opportunities."
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "Is that what I am? An opportunity?"
I remind him, "You're a miracle,” running my hands over his shoulders and marveling at the firm muscle beneath his warm, hairy skin. "My personal miracle."
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of vulnerability swiftly concealed by desire.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me like that—if he's comparing me to the women who usually share his bed. Probably willowy model types with perfect bodies and designer lingerie, not a curvy girl with stretch marks and simple cotton underwear. But the way he touches me—like I'm something precious—fades those insecurities.
I've spent too many years with men who made me feel like my body was something to be tolerated instead of celebrated. Men who suggested gym memberships as birthday gifts or pointed out internet models with "bodies like that."
Last year, I finally deleted the dating apps after one disappointment too many. My sister told me I was being too picky. Maybe I was, but here's Brian, looking at me like I've exceeded every expectation like he's discovered something extraordinary in my ordinary life.
He rolls the condom on with confident efficiency, then settles back between my thighs.
"I want to see your face when I slide inside you," he murmurs, bracing himself on his forearms.
He enters me in a powerful thrust, a deliciously hard invasion that pulls a cry from my throat. The stretch and fullness make me gasp, my nails digging into his back.
"God, Noa," he groans against my neck. "You feel incredible."
He begins to move, setting a rhythm that has me hanging onto his shoulders. I've had good sex before, but this—this is something else entirely.
It's not just the physical sensation, though that alone would be worth writing home about. It's how present he is, how focused. Past lovers always seemed to have one eye on the clock or the door, their minds already drifting to what came next. Even those who claimed to love me couldn't give me their full attention. But Brian is here, completely.
Every movement, every touch is deliberate, as if nothing in the world matters more than this connection between us. It feels dangerously close to devotion, yet I know better than to mistake good sex for something more meaningful. Still, a small, hopeful part of me wonders: what if it could be both?
The way he watches me, reads my reactions, adjusts his movements to heighten my pleasure... It's as if he's been studying my body for years, not just hours.
