“Fuck,” he groans, then he devours me.
There’s no teasing now. No easing into it. His mouth is everywhere—tongue swirling, lips sucking, beard scraping across overstimulated skin in the most perfect, filthy way. The pressure, the precision; it’s devastating.
He feasts with the singular intent to wreck me. Every breath, every sound, every ounce of control is pulled from my body until I’m nothing but a trembling, soaked mess on his tongue. I arch against him, thighs shaking, body singing with sensation so sharp it borders on pain. And I don’t care. I want more. I want all of it.
“Malachi—oh my God—”
My voice breaks as he slides two fingers inside me, pumping deep, curling just right. My back arches, head falling back, and I swear I see stars behind my eyes. It’s too much. It’s not enough. I feel myself climbing, tightening, unraveling under his hands, his mouth, the weight of his devotion disguised as filth.
“Look at me,” he demands roughly, pulling his mouth away just long enough to speak.
My eyes flutter open.
“Watch me while I make you come.”
Holy hell, the way he says it—low, commanding, laced with something dark and possessive—sends me right to the edge. His mouth crashes back down on me, fingers still driving into me, and I lose it.
I shatter.
My orgasm rips through me with a violence I’m not ready for. It makes my hips buck, legs shake, and a strangled cry tear frommy throat as everything goes hot and tight and too much. I try to hold on. I can’t. He doesn’t let me.
But he doesn’t stop.
He licks me through it, groaning in desperation that says he’s the one falling apart, that tasting me is undoing him too. When I finally collapse back against the table, chest heaving, thighs twitching, he pulls away slowly, almost reluctantly. His face and beard are soaked. His eyes are on fire.
Then he smiles.
Not sweet. Not smug. But dark and fucking dangerous.
“Next time,” he murmurs, rising to stand between my legs again, “I want to hear you beg for my cock while you’re still coming.”
My breath stutters. My pulse pounds behind my ribs. The words hit somewhere deep and molten. I should flinch. I should shove him away and retreat into my armor.
Instead, I ache.
He leans in, brushing his mouth over mine. Soft now, gentle, like the taste of me on his lips is sacred.
“Because this?” His fingers graze my still-throbbing center. “This is mine.”
And God help me… I want to be.
My hands move without thinking, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. The tremble in my thighs hasn’t faded. Neither has the fire curling low in my belly. But it’s not just want. It’s not just need.
It’s something rawer. Something terrifying.
He watches me with a gaze that holds both storm and salvation. And when I kiss him back—really kiss him, with no hesitation, no filter—I feel something give. Not just between us. Inside me. A fracture. A surrender.
His body presses into mine, firm and solid, the zipper of his jeans catching against my bare skin. I can feel the outline of him—thick, hard, straining—and it steals the air from my lungs. I’m still wrecked. Still trembling. And I want more. I wanthim.
“You good?” he asks, voice low but grounded now, steadied in a way that feels pulled back from the edge just for me.
I nod, barely trusting myself to speak. “Yeah.” A breath. A heartbeat. Then, quieter. “I needed that.”
His forehead presses against mine. “You can have more. Whenever you want.”
I nod again, but something else flickers behind my eyes. A line of lyrics rises, sharp and sudden. Don’t fall in love with the ones who stay after the fire. I bite my tongue before it spills out. Not yet. He’s not ready for that part of me. Maybe I’m not either.
So I just hold him close and let the weight of his body ground me, let the silence stretch warmly between us, a promise neither of us knows how to name yet.
