His eyes never leave mine, holding my gaze with that intense, unblinking focus. It's intimate, vulnerable, like he's memorizing every gasp, every tremble. When he reaches my hips, he grips the thong's fabric—delicate lace from La Perla, black as sin—and tugs sharply.
The material shreds with a rip that echoes in the quiet room, splitting into two useless halves. Cool air hits my exposed core, and I gawk at him, mouth agape in mock horror.
"You did not just?—"
"La Perla," he says, voice smug as he dangles the remnants. "Signature lace weave. I'll buy you every fucking color they make. Twice over."
The casual precision—the fact that he knows the brand, that he's promising replacement without a second thought—sends a fresh gush of slick rushing from me. It's acts of service like this: thoughtful, dominant, wrapped in care. My body responds before my mind catches up, arousal spiking sharp and sweet.
He notices.
His nostrils flare, inhaling deeply, and pride lights his features like dawn breaking. "Look at you, soaking for me. Guess acts of service get you dripping, huh? Let me show you I'm not the only one with a talented tongue."
Before I can quip back, he dives in—shoulders wedging my thighs apart, mouth sealing over my clit with devastating precision. No tentative licks, no buildup. Just hot, wet suction that has me crying out, hands fisting the sheets.
His tongue works in expert patterns: circling, flicking, pressing flat to lap at my entrance before returning to that sensitive bundle. Scents surge anew—my cinnamon vanilla spiking to molten levels, his leather amber enveloping us in a cocoon that's almost suffocating in its intensity. The room spins,dizzy with our blended aroma, like walking into a spice market after a bonfire: warm, heady, inescapable.
I buck against his face, one hand tangling in his short dark hair, pulling him closer. He growls approval into my flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through me. Fingers join the assault—two thick digits sliding inside, curling to hit that spot with unerring accuracy while his thumb circles my clit.
Pleasure builds fast, a tidal wave cresting higher with each stroke.
My internal monologue fractures into fragments:
Yes, right there—don't stop—fuck, he's good at this?—
I bite my lip, holding back the words, letting my body speak instead.
He reads me perfectly, pace relentless, until I'm teetering on the edge. Then he sucks hard, fingers thrusting deep, and I shatter—back arching, a keening moan ripping from my throat as ecstasy crashes over me in waves. He works me through it, lapping every drop, until I'm boneless, trembling.
Pulling back, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like a conqueror.
"Taste like heaven, Sweetness. Cinnamon and sin."
I laugh breathlessly, propping up on elbows.
"Not bad for a trial run. But if you're aiming for world-fucking status, you'll need to up your game."
His eyes narrow playfully.
"Oh, we're just getting started."
He crawls up my body, settling between my legs, cock hard again and nudging my entrance. But instead of thrusting in, he pauses—teasing the tip along my folds, coating himself in my slick.
"Tell me what you want next. Bossy omegas get rewards."
The banter sparks something light in my chest, cozy amid the heat.
"Want you deep. Slow at first, then wreck me."
"Done." He slides in inch by torturous inch, filling me completely, and we both groan at the union. Scents peak again—dizzying, all-consuming—his knot teasing but not locking yet.
He sets a rhythm:deep, measured thrusts that build tension like a coiled spring.
My nails dig into his back, tracing tattoos, urging him on. The bed creaks softly now, posts standing sentinel as snow piles silently outside, blanketing the world in white hush.
Internal thoughts whirl:This feels like home, somehow. Safe. Wild.
But I push them aside, focusing on the now—the slap of skin, his grunts, my gasps.
