His hands find my shoulders, kneading, working outward to my arms, then back in toward my collarbone. It’s a simple touch, not even explicitly sexual, but without sight to ground me, each point of contact feels magnified, electric.
I gasp when his mouth replaces his hands, trailing kisses along the path his fingers just mapped. Without vision, I can’t anticipate where he’ll go next—each touch is a surprise, each kiss a tiny shock to my system.
“Brooks,” I breathe, already feeling untethered, floating.
“Shh,” he soothes, his breath warm against my skin.
My back arches involuntarily when his tongue circles one nipple, then the other, the wet heat sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core. I reach for him, needing an anchor, but he catches my wrists, pressing them gently back to the mattress.
“No touching.” There’s that commanding tone again, the one that turns my insides to liquid.
I whimper but comply, fisting my hands in the sheets instead as his mouth continues its torturous journey downward. The anticipation is almost unbearable—I know where he’s heading, can feel his breath getting closer to where I’m aching for him, but I can’t prepare for the moment of contact.
When it comes—his tongue, hot and insistent against my most sensitive spot—I nearly come off the bed. My hips buck, a cry tearing from my throat before I can think to muffle it.
“God, Brooks,” I gasp.
I feel rather than see his smile against my thigh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with approval.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place as his mouth returns to its task with renewed purpose. The dual sensations of his tongue working precise circles and the gentle pressure of his fingers digging into my skin drive me higher, faster than I’ve ever experienced.
Without warning, he hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, opening me further. “Jesus, you’re limber, Syd.”
The new position allows him deeper access, and when his tongue dips inside me, I cry out again, louder this time. The blindfold amplifies everything—each stroke, each flick, each gentle suck feels impossibly intense, like my entire consciousness has narrowed to the points where his mouth touches me.
Just when I think I can’t take any more, he adds a finger, then another, the stretch and fullness a perfect counterpoint to the attention of his tongue. He curves his fingers upward, finding a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my closed eyelids.
“Right there,” I manage, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. “Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he increases the pressure, the speed, his fingers and tongue working in tandem to drive me higher, closer to an edge I can feel approaching like a tsunami.
When it hits, it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. The orgasm crashes over me in waves that seem endless, my back arching off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat that I have no hope of containing. My body convulses around his fingers as he works me through it, gentling his touch but not stopping completely until the aftershocks finally begin to subside.
I’m vaguely aware of him moving away, the distinctive sound of a condom wrapper tearing, the mattress dipping as he repositions himself between my legs. I’m still trembling from the force of my climax, oversensitive and boneless, when I feel him against me—hot and hard but not entering yet.
Instead, he slides his length along my folds, teasing, the head of him catching against my still-sensitive center in a way that makes me gasp. The blindfold remains in place, keeping me in darkness, heightening the sensation of him so close but not where I desperately want him.
“Brooks,” I plead, my hips lifting in invitation. “Please.”
“Please what?” His voice is strained, evidence that he’s not as in control as he’s pretending to be.
“Inside me,” I manage, past caring about how desperate I sound. “I need you inside me.”
He complies, but only barely—just the tip, entering me shallowly before withdrawing again. It’s maddening, this teasing, and I reach for him, needing to pull him closer, deeper.
But his hands capture my wrists, pinning them above my head in one swift movement. “Uh-uh,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I warned you about touching.”
The restraint, combined with the blindfold, sends an unexpected thrill through me. I’ve never been particularly submissive, but there’s something about surrendering control to Brooks—knowing he’ll take care of me, that I can trust him completely—that’s incredibly freeing.
“I’m going to restrain you now,” he continues, his grip on my wrists firm but not painful. “Is that okay?”
Even amid dominating me, he’s checking consent. It makes me want him even more.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, it’s okay.”
I feel him shift, adjusting his position while keeping my wrists secured. “Tell me how much you want it,” he demands, his voice rough with desire.
“So much. I want you so much it hurts.”
