He chuckled softly, but his eyes were intense. "Come here."
I did, and he lifted my top over my head, his fingers grazing my sides in a way that made me shiver. My bra followed, unclasped with expert ease, and then his mouth was on my breast, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue flicking the nipple until I arched into him, a whimper escaping.
"Connor—"
He switched to the other side, his hand cupping the first, rolling the peak between his fingers. Heat built between my legs, slick and insistent. I ground against his thigh instinctively, seeking friction, and he growled against my skin.
"Patience," he murmured, but his voice was strained.
I shook my head, my hands in his hair. "No. I need you."
He straightened, his mouth claiming mine again in a kiss that was deeper now, edged with the hunger he'd been holding back. His hands slid down, hooking into my panties and dragging them off. Then he pulled back the covers and lifted me effortlessly, like I was something precious.
The sheets were cool against my heated skin, but Connor's body covered mine almost immediately—not crushing, but enveloping. His weight was a delicious pressure, his cock nestling against my thigh, hot and insistent. He kissed my neck, slow and open-mouthed, teeth grazing just enough to make me gasp.
"I've wanted this since I saw you with that camera," he confessed, his breath hot against my ear. "The way you see the world—unafraid, unfiltered. It made me want to show you everything I'm not supposed to."
His words sent a fresh wave of desire through me. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the tip of him brush my entrance. But he didn't enter me. Instead, he kissed lower—down my collarbone, between my breasts, over my stomach. His hands parted my thighs wider, his shoulders settling between them.
"Connor, you don't have to?—"
"I want to," he said, looking up at me with eyes that burned. "Let me take care of you."
The vulnerability in that— a man like him, used to control, offering this—made my heart stutter. I nodded, and he lowered his mouth to me.
The first touch of his tongue was electric. Slow, deliberate laps against my clit, circling with just the right pressure. I arched off the bed, my hands fisting the sheets. He hummed in approval, the vibration sending sparks through me. One hand held my hip steady, the other slid a finger inside me, curling gently.
"Oh, God," I moaned, my body tightening around him.
He added a second finger, pumping slowly while his mouth worked me over—sucking, licking, teasing until I was trembling on the edge.
I'd had lovers before, skilled ones, but none who watched me like this, adjusting to every gasp, every shift, like my pleasure was his mission.
The thought slipped through the haze of heat building inside me: how rare this was. How many men had treated going down on me like a reluctant chore—an obligatory stop on the way to what they really wanted. A few quick licks, impatient, as if my pleasure were a hurdle instead of the destination. Some had avoided it altogether, making excuses or shifting focus the moment I guided them lower, leaving me to fake enthusiasm or finish myself later in the quiet dark.
But Connor … God, Connor was different. He wasn’t performing a service; he was devouring me like I was the only meal he’d ever craved.
His eyes stayed open, locked on my face even as his mouth worked magic between my thighs, reading every flicker of expression, every involuntary roll of my hips. When I tensed, he softened his touch. When I sighed, he doubled down, tongue pressing harder, fingers curling deeper. It wasn’t just skill—it was devotion. Like tasting me, feeling me come apart, was something he needed as badly as I needed to let go.
I’d always loved receiving this—loved the vulnerability of it, the way it stripped away pretense and left me raw and open. Loved the slick, intimate slide of a tongue that knew exactly where to linger, the way pleasure could coil so tight it felt almost unbearable. But I’d rarely felt safe enough to fully surrender to it. Rarely felt wanted enough to believe the man between my legs was there because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.
With Connor, I believed it. The way his hands gripped my thighs—not to hold me still, but to pull me closer, like he couldn’t get enough.
The low, hungry sounds he made against my skin, as if my taste was unraveling him, too. The reverence in the way he looked up at me, eyes dark and fierce, silently asking if this was good, if I needed more, if he could push me higher.
It undid me. Not just the pleasure—though, God, the pleasure was devastating—but the feeling behind it. That I was cherished in my wanting. That my desire wasn’t something to tolerate or rush through, but something to savor. Something worth his patience, his focus, his control slipping just enough for me to feel how desperately he wanted to give this to me.
I felt powerful and fragile at once, spread open beneath his mouth, my body no longer quiet or apologetic. Every moan I let out, every time my hips lifted to chase his tongue, felt like areclaiming—of my pleasure, my voice, my right to be greedy for this.
"Connor—I'm close?—"
He didn't speed up. He slowed, drawing it out, making the build agonizingly sweet. When I finally came undone, it was with his name on my lips, waves crashing through me, leaving me boneless and gasping.
He kissed his way back up, his body covering mine again. His cock pressed against me, slick from my release, but he didn't push inside. Instead, he rolled us so I was on top, straddling him.
“Right here,” he said, hands on my hips, guiding but not forcing.
I looked down at him, this powerful man beneath me, eyes full of want—for me. It was intoxicating.
