“Can I help you?” I laugh, wiping away the steam on the shower door.
“Dinner’s ready. But you look like the perfect appetiser.” He winks, sending shivers down my skin. Good God, this man makes me feral.
“Best get your ass in here and eat up, big boy,” I purr, wanting him between my thighs and on his knees, giving me that amazing tongue of his.
He strips off quickly and steps in, shutting the glass door behind him. His wide, strong frame forces me against the wall, the cold tiles pressing against my back as he
Alexandra Ravensbrook
looks down at me, the water running in rivulets down his shoulders, little drops catching on his chest hair. I trail my fingers over his shoulder and pec muscles, tracing the outline of the forest he has inked there.
His hands roam in light swirls up my inner thigh, my whole body lighting up, ready for his mouth. I push his shoulder down, and he lowers to his knees, his eyes never leaving mine. Kneeling there in the shower, his hair soaked and his skin glistening, I’ve never seen a more stunning sight.
I lift my leg up and rest it on his shoulder, his hands gripping me tight around my hips as he pushes his tongue between my labia. I sigh like I’ve been waiting for this moment all day. Water slides down my stomach, glistening between my folds, and then he leans in. The first tender flick of his tongue against my sensitive flesh makes my hips roll forward with a helpless little grind.
“That’s it, baby. So good for me,” I moan, my voice raspy and thick with desire for my man. Threading my fingers through his damp locks, he looks up at me as his tongue starts to draw long, slow, lazy circles over my throbbing clit.
“Oh, yes,” I breathe, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. “Slow circles, just like I love. Feel how wet I am for you?” He answers with another soft stroke, and I moan at the sensation, the perfect balance of pressure and
Yes, Miss
devotion. This isn’t just him on his knees worshipping me or my pussy; it’s intimacy painted in heat and water.
His tongue traces a hot path from my clit to my entrance, slow and deliberate. I arch into it, whispering, “Good boy. You know exactly how to make me melt.” He hums against me, never taking his mouth from my pussy, and the vibration shivers through my core, making my thighs tremble. I run my hand down his back, feeling the water ripple over his skin. “You were made for this, weren’t you? For me. So eager. Such a perfect boy.”
He slides his hands around my hips, holding me steady as I grind down onto his mouth. Each movement is a slow, luxurious glide, like feeling soft silk sheets against bare skin, his tongue swirling, pressing, tasting every pulse of arousal I give him. He curls the very tip of his tongue inside me, and I gasp. “Yes. Just like that.”
His tongue moves again to my clit as the sudden pressure of two fingers pushes inside me, filling me completely.
My voice drops to a husky whisper as I feel my release coiling inside me. “Keep going… just there. I’m so close.” His mouth becomes rhythmic, a perfect pattern of sucking, flicking, circling, and I feel every sensation deep in my bones. I whisper praise between breaths. “You always take such good care of me. Work your tongue for your queen, that’s it…”
Alexandra Ravensbrook
My pleasure crests like a wave, and when I come, it’s with a low, shuddering moan, my body trembling around the continued assault of his mouth. He doesn’t pull away, not even when my thighs lock and my fingers grip his shoulders. He stays, licking me through it, gentle and tender and so damn good.
When the last ripple of pleasure finally fades, I lower my leg and sink to my knees in front of him, water streaming between us. I cradle his face in both hands, my thumbs brushing his wet cheeks. “You were perfect,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his, tasting myself on him. “My sweet man… You always know how to make your queen feel loved.”
We sit at the table as he serves up a beautiful lasagne and side salad. Topping our glasses off with wine, I ask, “So, what happened to your hand today?”
His injured hand freezes momentarily, holding the serving spoon.
I swirl my glass and sit back, watching him, looking for any signs of him hiding information from me as his face runs through a series of emotions. This man has no idea that he lays out every feeling on his face.
First, there is anger that flashes through his eyes, swiftly followed by sadness that drowns his eyes likea
Yes, Miss
stormy sea, then it goes blank, almost unreadable as he processes his next move until, finally, he pushes a reluctant smile onto his lips.
Ah, there it is—he’s planning on lying to me.
My heart sinks at the realisation until the pain hardens to my own fizzing anger. I’m intrigued as to how far he’ll go with this. That’s fine, we can play that game; he’ll tell me eventually, and I’ll make him suffer for it.
“I ran into Phil from rugby on the way home, went to give him a hug, and caught my hand on a shop wall,” he says, a small, lifeless laugh following.
I wait.
Liars always want to embellish the story, add more to it, so I sip my wine and keep watching him.
