“Dax—” I gasp, my voice breaking. “Oh my god.”
“That’s it,” he growls, voice gone gravel. “Say my fucking name while I feast on you.”
He wraps his arms under my thighs, pulling me flush against his mouth. Every lick, every flick, every fucking swirl of his tongue sends me higher. My head drops back. I grip the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“You taste so fucking real,” he mutters against me, every word a kiss, a claim, a confession. “So fucking perfect. Like honey and sin.”
I whimper — legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head.
“Don’t hold back,” he says. “Give it to me, butterfly. Cum on my tongue.”
The pressure builds, unbearable and blinding and beautiful. And when it hits—I shatter.
My whole body arches off the counter as he licks me through it, not stopping, not slowing, holding me open and down and his as I fall apart in his mouth.
“God, Dax—fuck?—”
“Yeah,” he whispers against me, kissing me through the aftershocks. “That’s it. That’s mine.”
I blink through the haze, pulling my eyes open to find him rising to his feet. His face is flushed. His lips are glistening. And his eyes—Those cold ocean eyes burn hotter than hellfire.
He kisses me, his tongue pushing past my lips while his fingers dig into my hair, and the taste hits me—tangy, musky, unmistakably mine—smeared across his mouth and chin, evidence of what he just did to me between my thighs.
“You okay?” he asks, forehead against mine, voice lower now. Rougher. More him.
I nod, breathless.
Then he grips my hips with both hands, fingers digging into my flesh, and drags me forward until I'm pressed against the thick outline of his cock straining against his boxers. The thin cotton is the only barrier between us, already damp where he's leaking. He grinds against my swollen, sensitive centre, the rough fabric creating a friction that makes me gasp and arch. The hard ridge of him slides through my wetness, hitting every nerve ending, promising everything but giving nothing.
“You want me to fuck you on this counter?” he asks. “Or should I bend you over it and fuck you from behind?”
I swear I stop breathing.
“Choose, butterfly.”
“I want both,” I whisper, breath catching when he grins like the devil just handed him permission to sin.
His mouth brushes mine — soft, reverent, misleading — because his hands are anything but.
“Greedy little butterfly,” he murmurs, voice all praise and danger. “Let’s start sweet…”
I don’t expect him to turn back toward the counter.
I really don’t expect him to reach for the bowl.
“What are you?—?”
“I said I’d make you breakfast,” he says, dipping his fingers into the leftover batter. “Didn’t say how.”
I watch, stunned and fucking soaked, as he dips his fingers back into the bowl. The pancake batter drips thick and golden between his knuckles as he traces a slow, deliberate path across my collarbone, down between my breasts. The cool liquid makes me gasp, my nipples hardening instantly as he paints figure eights around them, leaving them untouched, aching. His eyes never leave mine—dark, possessive—as he decorates me like his own personal canvas. When he finally lowers his head, his tongue is hot against the cooling batter, the contrast making me arch. He takes his time, cleaning every drop with meticulous attention, teeth occasionally grazing sensitive skin, making me whimper and writhe beneath him.
“Jesus,” I gasp, head falling back as his tongue drags slow and hot across my skin.
“Not quite,” he says, smirking against my throat before dipping his fingers again. “But I’ll make you pray.”
He paints more batter across my breasts with torturous precision—his fingers tracing slow, teasing spirals that makemy skin prickle with goosebumps. The sticky sweetness cools against my flushed skin as he draws a cross over my sternum, pressing just hard enough that I feel the pressure against my racing heart. When he traces a filthy little heart just above my nipple, I can't help but arch into his touch, desperate for more as the wetness between my thighs becomes unbearable.
Then he drops to his knees, his eyes locked on mine—dark and hungry, pupils blown wide. I can see my own reflection in them: splayed open, vulnerable, wanted. His hands grip my thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he spreads me wider. My pussy is swollen and pink, slick with need, my clit throbbing visibly with each heartbeat. When his tongue makes contact, I feel the rough texture against my tender flesh—deliberate, reverent. He moans against me like a starving man tasting salvation, the vibration shooting straight through my core. His stubble scrapes the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he devours me, leaving marks that will remind me tomorrow who I belong to tonight.
