His mouth is on me — everywhere — tongue licking and sucking syrup from my skin like it’s ambrosia, groaning against me like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever fed him.
“You taste like sin,” he breathes. “Sticky, sweet… and fucking mine.”
He grabs my thighs and lifts me effortlessly, syrup smearing across his hands and dripping between us as he carries me to the table and lays me out like a goddamn feast.
Then he goes lower. His eyes lock with mine as he tips the bottle, letting honey drip in a slow, golden stream between my legs. I gasp as the warm sweetness pools against my swollen flesh, trickling into every fold, catching in the soft curls. My hips twitch involuntarily as the sticky warmth seeps into places already slick with want. He watches, transfixed, as the amber liquid glistens against pink, his breath catching when I shift and everything gleams in the low light.
He trails kisses along the path of sugar, licking it away slowly… possessively… until he finally reaches—“Oh fuck,” I cry out, hips jolting as his mouth takes me.
His tongue parts my swollen pussy lips, hot and insistent. Each slow drag sends electricity up my spine as he licks through my wetness, moaning like he's tasting something sacred. When he sucks my clit between his lips, my hips buck wildly against his face. Syrup mingles with my arousal, making everything slick and filthy as his tongue plunges inside me, fucking my pussy with such hunger I can't tell where his mouth ends and my body begins. I'm trembling, desperate, my fingers tangled in his hair as he devours me like he needs my pleasure to survive.
“Look at me,” he growls against me. “You feel that?” he says, voice dark and thick with heat. “That’s what it means to be mine.”
I nod, lost in the haze.
Then he flattens his tongue against my clit, dragging it up with slow, deliberate pressure that makes my thighs quiver around his head. His stubbled jaw scrapes my inner thighs as he works his mouth against me, hungry and relentless, his fingers spreading me wider so he can taste deeper.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp, nails clawing the table.
“Fucking right you are.”
He doesn’t stop until I’m crying out his name again — syrup-slick, broken open, wrecked in the best way and when he finally lifts his head, mouth glistening, chest heaving?
He smiles. “You still want pancakes, butterfly?” he smirks, voice pure sin.
I laugh, breathless. “Only if you serve them on your abs.”
I barely catch my breath before he’s reaching behind him again—grabbing something else off the counter with that sinful smirk that makes my thighs clench.
Chocolate sauce.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I whisper, my voice still ragged from the last orgasm.
“Breakfast of champions, baby,” he murmurs, popping the lid. “You think syrup ruined you?”
He tilts the bottle. The chocolate spills over the lip in a dark, glossy stream that catches the light as it falls. It hits my collarbone with shocking warmth, making me gasp as it pools in the hollow of my throat before overflowing. He watches, pupils blown, as it trails between my breasts, leaving a glistening path down my sternum. The sweet scent rises with my body heat. When it reaches my navel, his breathing changes—rougher, hungrier. His fingers intercept the flow, gathering the chocolate before sliding between my thighs where I'm already slick and swollen. His touch is reverent yet possessive as he marks me there, his eyes never leaving mine, silently promising what that mouth will do next.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
He grins, dark and wolfish. “No, butterfly. I’m worshipping you.”
Then he leans down and licks every last drop off me.
Slow, greedy laps of his tongue. He’s moaning like it’s the first real taste of happiness he’s ever had. His teeth graze. His mouth devours. He drags his tongue between my thighs like he wants to ruin me for anyone else.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had,” he groans, mouth slick with sugar and chocolate and me. “Sweet. Filthy. Mine.”
I can’t even form words. I’m just writhing—sticky, aching, and soaked in sugar and sweat and want.
He looks up, mouth smeared, chin wet, and wipes it with the back of his hand. Doesn’t bother cleaning the rest. Just climbsup my body, rubbing all that syrup and chocolate onto me—into me—until we’re both a mess.
Until his tongue is everywhere at once—lapping at my neck, dragging hot and wet between my breasts, dipping into my navel. His mouth devours me like I'm melting chocolate on his lips.
Until we're slick with sweat and other things, my thighs trembling as he tastes me again and again.
His fingers dig into my hips, holding me open for his hungry mouth. When he finally kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue—sweet and sharp and so fucking filthy I moan into his mouth.
