He's relentless, somehow making it different from last time. It's more focused and intense. He uses his tongue, his lips, the scrape of his stubble against sensitive skin.
By the time the second orgasm hits, I'm writhing and crying out, my hands pulling his hair. The orgasm keeps building, continuing for so long until my voice is hoarse from calling his name.
When it ends, he moves up the bed.
"Now touch me. I want your hands on me."
I reach for him with shaking fingers. He's hard and hot in my palm.
"Show me what to do," I whisper.
He guides my hand, showing me the pressure he likes, the rhythm that makes his breath catch. His hand covers mine, teaching me, and I watch his face as pleasure transforms his features.
When he comes, it's with my name on his lips and his hand still wrapped around mine.
Before I can fully process what happened, he's moving down my body again.
"What are you doing?"
"One more," he says, settling back between my thighs. "At least one more."
This time, he adds his fingers while his mouth works me. The dual sensation is overwhelming. I try to close my legs, try to escape the intensity, but he holds me open with gentle firmness.
"Let go," he commands. "I've got you."
The third orgasm is deeper and longer, pulling something from my core that feels dangerously close to surrender. My legs shake uncontrollably, tremors I can't stop when he finally pulls away.
He's not done.
Through the night, he takes me apart again and again. With his mouth, his hands, his whispered words against my skin. Teaching my body new languages of pleasure, showing me sensations I didn't know existed.
By the time dawn starts lighting the windows, I'm boneless, exhausted, thoroughly claimed.
"This isn't practice anymore," I say, my voice wrecked. "This is real."
“Yeah, it’s real for both of us.”
He pulls me against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
***
I wake up to an empty bed and the sound of running water. Declan's in the shower singing off-key. Sunlight streams through the windows. My body aches in unfamiliar places, a reminder of last night that makes me flush.
When I take my phone from my bag, guilt crashes over me like ice water.
King.
I'm lying in Declan's bed, my body still humming from his touch, while King texts me messages every day, shares his thoughts and fears and makes me feel seen.
I can't be with Declan while stringing King along. It's not fair to Declan, King, or myself. There's only one reasonable thing to do. I compose a message to King.
Ivy:
I need to talk to you in person. There's someone else in my life now, and I owe you an honest conversation before this goes any further. Can we meet?
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
The shower turns off. Declan will emerge any moment, looking excruciatingly handsome with wet hair and that smile that makes my defenses crumble.
