Oh my fucking god.
His mouth.
His fucking mouth.
Tongue dragging through my folds like he’s trying to memorise me. Like he wants to carve me into his taste buds. Like I’m something holy and he’s ready to sin.
“Dax—” I choke, my hands flying to his hair as he groans deep and sloppy into my cunt.
He pulls one of my thighs over his shoulder and spreads me wider.
“Fuck, you taste so real,” he mutters against my clit. “You taste like you were made for me. Tell me you’re real, butterfly.”
“I’m real,” I whimper, already falling apart.
“I don’t believe you.”
He sucks my clit hard, then flattens his tongue and drags it slow, deep, sinful.
“Prove it.”
“Dax—”
“Say my fucking name while I taste this sweet cunt.”
I chant it like a prayer, my body going liquid as his tongue fucks me open, every movement filthy, reverent, desperate.
“I’m real,” I sob, fingers fisting his hair. “I’m real, Dax—oh my god?—”
“You’re mine,” he growls, mouth slick and coated in me. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He stands in one fluid motion, his mouth shining with me, and crashes his lips back to mine. I can taste myself on him. I can feel his cock pressing hard against my stomach.
And he just breathes.
“Fuck, butterfly…” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I should’ve never tasted you. I’ll never stop now.”
I don’t know if I’m breathing or begging.
I don’t know if this is possession or prayer.
I just know I want him everywhere.
“Dax,” I whisper, my hands slipping beneath his shirt, nails scraping down the hard lines of his abs like I need to mark him. “I want you.”
His jaw flexes. His eyes burn.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I’m not asking,” I bite out. “I’m telling you.”
His groan is low. Dangerous. The kind that hits between your legs before it ever reaches your ears.
He grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, his body pressing mine back against the wall, his cock like steel against my stomach.
“You wanna play with fire, butterfly?” he whispers, voice pure filth. “You think you’re ready to burn?”
