I was panting, on fire with desire, my body already spiraling towardoblivion. I reclined against the vanity, the hardwood biting into my back, my elbows braced against the surface, my head lolling against the mirror.
Roman pressed his palms to my thighs, urging me wider, exposing me completely.
Then, he took a deep inhale.
“You smell like heaven, amore,” he groaned, his voice thick, ravenous. “You’re my feast. My addiction. My daily fucking worship.”
Then, his tongue.
The first flick against my clit was torture.
A tease. A promise. A punishment.
I gasped, my body seizing, my breath vanishing, but he didn’t move.
He just held his tongue there, motionless, taunting me, letting my own body betray me.
I melted.
A swirl of liquid heat.
A desperate, aching, soaked mess beneath his mouth.
Then, he moved.
Up. Down. Slow. Deliberate.
Slick, wet perfection.
Slow. Teasing. Unbearable.
“Holy fuck,” I whispered, my voice barely there, my fingers digging into the vanity.
Pleasure rippled through me, spreading like fire, scorching every nerve, every cell. My body arched, rolling against his face, grinding for more.
He was merciless.
His mouth, his tongue, his wicked, wicked tongue—devouring me, ruining me.
And then—his fingers.
One. Sliding deep, stretching, curling, stroking that devastating spot inside me.
I choked on my moan.
Then—two.
Three.
His tongue flicked faster, sucking, stroking, teasing, destroying.
I came violently.
Shaking, sobbing, gasping his name, my body convulsing around his fingers.
And he didn’t stop.
Didn’t let me come down.
