Bastian pulls back, leaving my breasts wet and aching, shining with saliva and melted cream. I whimper at the loss of his mouth as the cold rushes in again.
But he doesn’t make me wait long. He reaches behind me again, suffusing my nose with his wintergreen scent as he leans close. This time, he produces a small jar of honey.
It’s a rich amber in the kitchen lighting. He tips the jar and drizzles a thin, golden line down my sternum. The honey is warm and it pools between my breasts before trickling down over the swell of my belly. My belly that’s round with our child, even here, even in this fantasy.
“Honey for my honey,” he murmurs with an amused chuckle as we both watch it drip downward toward the waistband of my skirt. “I’ve been thinking about this for months, you know. All those late nights in the office, watching you frown and chew on your pen… I kept imagining what you’d look like spread out on my countertop, sticky and sweet andmine.”
“Bastian—” I start.
But he cuts me off with a finger pressed to my lips. “Hush. I’m working.”
He puts a fingertip to the smear of honey and drags it around in slow fingers spread the honey across my skin in slow circles. Everywhere it goes, it leaves behind a glimmering gold path.
“You’re a fucking masterpiece,” he mutters, almost to himself.
Then he reaches for a bowl of sliced peaches, summer-ripe and dripping with juice, and begins arranging them on my body. Two crescents frame my navel. Another rests in the dip of my hip.
A sprinkle of cinnamon across my collarbone.
A dollop of crème fraîche in the hollow of my throat.
When he’s satisfied with his work, he steps back to admire it. I don’t dare move.
“Now,” he says, pushing up his sleeves higher, “I’m going to eat.”
He starts at my throat. His tongue teases down the line of crème fraîche. His teeth scrape gently against my pulse point, and I feel my heartbeat thundering against his lips like it’s trying to crawl into his mouth.
He works his way down methodically, tasting every inch he’s decorated. The cinnamon on my collarbone makes him groan. The honey on my sternum makes me gasp. When he reaches the peaches on my belly, he collects each slice between his teeth and chews slowly while maintaining eye contact.
I’m an absolute puddled mess. Every bite he takes sends ripples outward from the point of contact, like I’m a pond and he’s chucking stones in the heart of me. The sensations don’t even make sense—his mouth is on my stomach but I feel it in my fingertips, in the arches of my feet, behind my eyes. My nerve endings don’t connect to the right places anymore.
I want to touch him but my body won’t obey. I’m sealed to the counter somehow. I couldn’t move if I tried.
And even if I did, Bastian wouldn’t let me. His hands are planted on my thighs to hold me still. I’m not going anywhere soon.
He takes his time. God, does he take his time. When he reaches my navel, he circles it with his tongue, dipping inside, and the sensation is so unexpectedly erotic that I cry out. He looks up at me from between my legs, his mouth shining with honey, his eyes gone dark with want.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he croons. “You won’t make it to the end if you’re this wrecked already.”
As he talks, his hands slide up under my skirt. His rough fingers hook into my berry-print underwear and drag it down my legs.He leaves it dangling from one of my ankles, like he’s fond of this pair and doesn’t want to let them go quite yet.
Then he lowers himself to his knees in front of me.
I’m completely bare to him, to the kitchen, to the cold countertop on my ass. I’m sweet and sticky to the touch like a half-eaten meal, but Bastian licks his lips and a fresh surge of heat tears through me.
Apparently, though, I’m not yet sweet enough for his liking, because he plucks one more thing off the counter: a small bowl of melted chocolate, dark and glossy, still warm.
Like with the cream, he dips two fingers in the liquid. This time, he drags it tenderly over my inner thigh. I gasp and squirm against the counter as my skin sizzles and my center begs to be filled because it’s empty, desperate, needy.
He leans in to lick it all off.
The contrast of his tongue against the warm chocolate whites out my vision completely. I see nothing but static and starbursts as he works his way up my thighs slowly, savoring every drop like I’m the most decadent thing he’s ever tasted. I’m trembling so hard the counter trembles beneath me.
When his mouth hovers right over my center, I can feel his breath plume over me, and I think I might actually die.
Then he kills me.
There’s no easy build-up, no leaning into it, and why would there need to be? He’s been teasing me for what feels like hours now and one touch is almost enough to destroy me all on its own. Bastian’s lips seal around my clit and suck, a hard blaze of sensation, and just like that, I’m gone.
