gradually,
insidiously.
Creeping, curling, tightening.
Until after one more deep stroke…
One more shift of my hips…
After the smallest brush of my clit against his tongue…
And I’m pushed over the edge.
The orgasm doesn’t crash—itfloods.
White-hot pleasure drags me under, and I’m forced to hold my breath.
He doesn’t stop,
doesn’t rush,
doesn’t slow as the orgasm becomes me.
He holds me in his mouth,
feeling me beat against his tongue,
his lips brushing the pulse of my clit.
Then his mouth falls open wider,
licking me gentle, licking me leisurely,
as I ride the edge over and over.
He doesn't chase anything,
just wants me close,
his mouth full of me,
feeling me,
tasting me,
smelling me.
And in that moment,
I’m nothing but this feeling.
I’m lost in it, completely surrendered to it.
Disoriented and trying to catch my breath.
Andrew lies his head against the inside of my thigh.
I can feel him breathing,
