The batter is cool against my flushed skin, but his mouth — fuck, his mouth — is fire. Wet, hot, possessive. Every suck, every bite, every slow swipe of his tongue is designed to ruin me, to leave nothing behind but trembling limbs and moans I can’t swallow.
“You taste better than any sin I’ve committed,” he groans, licking across my ribs. “And that list is fucking long.”
He spreads my thighs, pulls me to the edge of the counter again, and looks up at me with that feral, reverent heat in his eyes.
Then he paints a thick line of batter down my stomach. All the way to where I throb for him most.
He licks.
Slow. Dragging. Sticky and sinful.
“You’re gonna break me,” I whisper, dizzy with it.
“No,” he says, licking back up. “I’m just getting started.”
And then he's inside me—his pierced cock stretching me open, the metal barbells dragging against my walls as he pushes deeper. The thick ridge of his head catches on every sensitive spot, the steel ring at the tip pressing places I didn't know could feel so much. I feel myself clench around him, pulsing against cold metal and hot flesh until I'm crying out his name like it's the only word I remember.
“Dax—”
“That’s it,” he grits, fucking into me slow but hard, holding my thighs open as he drives deeper, rougher, sweeter. “Say my name while I take what’s mine.”
“Yours,” I gasp, fingers gripping the edge. “I’m yours?—”
“Fuck yes you are.”
He pounds into me as he licks the last of the batter from my chest, groaning like the taste of me is addictive, like I’m feeding a hunger he’s tried to bury for years.
“I should stay away from you,” he growls against my ear. “I should have walked away the moment I saw you.”
“But you didn’t,” I breathe.
“No. I fucking couldn’t.”
He thrusts harder, his grip bruising, his mouth everywhere.
“But I can’t just keep fucking you, butterfly…”
He slows suddenly, lips brushing my ear. “Let me take you out again. Let me do this right.”
I blink through the haze, dazed and aching and desperate.
“You asking me on a date, soldier?” I whisper.
He laughs against my throat, thrusting deeper. “I’m asking for everything.”
I don’t even realise I’m shaking until he stills inside me.
His fingers are still sticky from the batter.
His mouth is still hot from everything he just took.
And his eyes — God, those eyes — are on fire when he pulls back, grabs the bottle of syrup from the counter behind me, and holds it up like a promise.
“Breakfast isn’t over.”
My legs are still shaking, my body still aching from the first round, but I nod.
He pops the lid with his teeth, never breaking eye contact. The honey catches light like liquid amber as he tips the bottle, his pupils blown black with hunger. The first scalding drop hits my sternum with a sound that makes my thighs clench. I gasp as it pools there—warm, forbidden, primal—before he tilts the bottle again, painting a glistening path that makes my nipples tighten painfully. The honey crawls down my ribs, pooling in the hollow of my navel, sticking to my skin like his fingerprints. His jaw clenches, throat working as he swallows hard, watching the viscous sweetness claim me like he's marking territory no man will ever touch again.
