This kiss is different from last night. Last night was gentle, testing. This is claiming. His mouth moves over mine with purpose, his tongue sliding against my bottom lip until I open for him. He tastes like coffee and darker things that send heat straight to my pussy.
I shift on his lap, trying to get closer, and feel him hard beneath me. Want jolts through me so intense that it makes me gasp against his mouth.
He pulls back, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. “Tilly.”
“Don’t stop.” My voice comes out breathy. “Please don’t stop.”
His jaw works. “I need you to be sure. Tell me this is what you want, not just because you’re emotional.”
The care in his words makes my pulse race. “I want this. I want you.”
“Say it again.”
“I want you, Davin.” I hold his gaze. “I want you to touch me.”
His expression shifts. The restraint cracks, and what’s underneath is raw and hungry. His hand slides up from my waist to cup my breast through my shirt, thumb brushing across my nipple. The touch sends sparks down my spine, and I arch into his palm.
“Bed,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not doing this on a barstool.”
He stands, lifting me with him, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He carries me to the bedroom like I weigh nothing, his hands secure under my thighs, and kicks the door shut behind us.
He eases me onto the bed with careful hands, then follows, lowering his full weight until every solid inch of him presses me deep into the mattress. The pressure should feel confining, but instead it wraps around me like safety itself: his chest to mine, hips aligned, thighs bracketing my softer ones. I breathe him in, woodsmoke and clean skin and something darker now, hungrier.
His mouth finds mine again, no preamble this time. The kiss turns ravenous, with his lips parting wide, tongue stroking deep, claiming my mouth in slow, deliberate sweeps that make my head spin. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are molten.
“May I?” His fingers curl around the hem of my shirt, knuckles brushing the sensitive skin just above my waistband.
“Yes.” The word trembles out.
He peels the fabric up inch by torturous inch, exposing the gentle swell of my stomach, the deep dip of my waist, the full undersides of my breasts still cradled in lace. The shirt drops away. His gaze follows the path his hands just traced, drinking in every curve like he’s memorizing scripture.
I start to cross my arms out of habit, but he catches my wrists gently, pinning them beside my head with one large palm.
“Don’t hide from me, Tilly.” His voice is low. “Every soft inch of you is perfect. Look at this beautiful stomach, so full, so fucking lush.” His free hand glides up the rounded plane of my stomach, fingers splaying wide to savor the give beneath his touch. “I could spend hours just feeling how soft you are here… how you were made to be touched like this.”
Heat floods my face, my chest. He releases my wrists only to slide both hands beneath the band of my bra, thumbs stroking the tender skin along my ribs before he unhooks the clasp with one deft motion. The lace falls away. Cool air kisses my breasts, making my nipples draw even tighter.
He exhales roughly. “God, look at you.” He cups one breast in each hand, lifting their heavy weight, letting them spill over his palms. “So full… so perfect in my hands.” His thumbs sweep slow circles around the areolas, teasing without touching the peaks yet. “These curves deserve to be worshiped, sweetheart.”
When his mouth finally closes over my left nipple, the wet heat is devastating. He sucks gently at first, tongue licking the sensitive bud in lazy spirals, then firmer, drawing it deep, letting his teeth graze just enough to send sparks racing down my spine. My back bows off the bed; a broken moan spills out.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice vibrating through me. “Let me hear how good it feels. Let me hear what my mouth does to your gorgeous tits.”
He switches sides, lavishing the other nipple with the same slow devotion, so many long, wet pulls, soft flicks of his tongue, the occasional gentle scrape of teeth that makes my hips jerk. His hands never stop moving: kneading the soft flesh, tracing the gentle slope where breast meets rib, thumbs brushing the sensitive crease underneath until I’m trembling, thighs pressing together against the growing ache in my pussy.
By the time he lifts his head, both nipples are flushed dark and glistening, and I’m shaking beneath him.
His palm skates down my stomach again, fingers dipping into the soft roll above my navel, pressing there like he loves the way it yields. “This part of you drives me wild,” he confesses, voice thick. “So plush… so womanly. I want to kiss every curve, Tilly. Every single one.”
He reaches the button of my jeans and pauses, eyes lifting to mine.
“Yes,” I breathe before he can speak. “Please, Davin. I need—”
He doesn’t let me finish. The zipper rasps down; together we shove denim and lace over my hips. He drags everything off slowly until I’m bare beneath him. Then he sits back on his heels between my parted legs and simply looks.
His gaze traces me from flushed cheeks to the heavy swell of my breasts, the rounded softness of my stomach, the generous flare of my hips, the fullness of my thighs. His hands follow, palms gliding up the outside of my legs, thumbs stroking the sensitive inner skin, then settling on my hips.
“Open for me, darling.” The words are quiet. “Let me see all of you.”
