Encouraged, I continue lower, kissing and licking across the hard planes of his stomach. His muscles tense under my mouth, and I can feel his cock throbbing against my stomach.
When I reach the line of dark hair below his navel, I hesitate.
"Can I—"
"You can do whatever you want to me," he says, voice strained. "But Matilda, if you're planning to put your mouth on my cock, you should know I won't last long."
The crude words make heat flood through me. "Tell me how."
He sits up abruptly, rearranging us so I'm kneeling between his legs. His cock is hard and thick, and up close like this, I'm struck again by the size of him.
"Start slow," he instructs, his voice rough. "Use your hand first. Feel how hard you make me."
I wrap my fingers around him tentatively. His skin is hot and silky smooth over steel, and when I stroke upward experimentally, he hisses through his teeth.
"Like that?"
"Exactly like that." His hand covers mine, showing me the rhythm he likes. "Tighter. Don't be afraid to grip me."
I follow his guidance, stroking him with more confidence. His head falls back, jaw clenched, and watching him lose control because of something I'm doing is the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.
"Now your mouth," he says. "Just the head at first. Use your tongue. If you don’t enjoy it, stop."
I lean forward and lick tentatively across the tip. The taste is foreign but not unpleasant, and I remember that he was inside me less than thirty minutes ago, so I’m tasting myself too.
"Good girl," he groans. "Now take me in your mouth."
I do, wrapping my lips around the head and sucking gently. His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, holding me still for a moment.
"Fuck, Matilda. Your mouth feels incredible."
The praise makes me bolder. I take him deeper, using my hand on what I can't fit in my mouth, establishing a rhythm that makes his breathing turn ragged.
"That's it. Just like that. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."
I experiment with pressure, with speed, paying attention to what makes him groan, what makes his grip tighten in my hair. And when I feel him start to tense, when his hips start to rock in small thrusts and his thighs begin to tremble, I figure he's close.
"Matilda, I'm going to—you should—"
But I don't pull away. I want this. Want to taste him, want to own his pleasure as much as he does.
He comes with a groan, spilling hot and thick in my mouth. I swallow reflexively, surprised by the intimacy of it, and when I pull back and look up at him, his eyes are dark and possessive.
"Come here," he commands, voice wrecked.
I crawl up his body, and he kisses me deeply, tasting himself on my tongue.
"You're going to ruin me," he murmurs against my mouth.
"Good," I say, echoing his earlier word.
He laughs, low and rough, then rolls us so I'm beneath him again. "My turn."
"But you just—"
"I'm not done with you yet." His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet again. "Not even close."
And then his mouth is on me, and thought becomes impossible.
