God. This man.
“You might want to take your glasses off,” I tell him, propping myself up on my elbows so I can watch.
He looks up at me, his face cracking into a quick, relieved smile. “Right,” he says. He removes them in one decisive, careful motion, folds the stems, and sets them on the nightstand. Now I can see his eyes fully—no glass or glare to come between us. They’re darker than I realized, almost midnight in this light, pupils so wide they swallow the blue.
His fingers retrace their path up my legs, more confident, more sure this time. He hooks his hands under my knees and nudges them apart, slow and deliberate, gaze flicking up to mine to ask for permission even though he’s already got it in spades. I nod—so small a gesture but it feels seismic.
He lowers his head and presses his lips to my inner thigh. The touch sends a shiver through me, and he registers the response—cataloging it, filing it away.. He kisses higher, alternating sides, taking his time, and I can already tell this is going to wreck me.
“Good,” I breathe. “That’s good.”
He reaches the apex of my thighs and pauses, and I watch his face as he takes me in. There’s no hesitation in his expression, no disgust or awkwardness—just hunger. Pure, undisguised hunger.
“Now what?” His breath ghosts over my most sensitive skin, and I have to fight not to squirm.
“Use your tongue, your fingers. Do I need to show you where the clit is?”
“No. I know the anatomy.” Of course he does. He’s probably read twelve peer-reviewed papers on female sexual response. The thought makes me want to laugh and moan at the same time.
“Of course you do. Show me, then. Explore a little.”
“Explore,” he repeats, voice thick with the kind of awe that should feel embarrassing but doesn’t—not from him. He traces the pads of his fingers up the slick, trembling center of me and immediately looks up, hunting for my reaction, and God, the earnestness of it is almost too much. I lift my hips for him, not shy, not anymore, not when he’s so ravenous for every next move. He breathes out a shaky sound and runs his tongue up the length of me, featherlight at first, as if he still can’t believe he’s allowed. His tongue finds my clit and at the lightest circle, white heat spikes through me. I clutch the bedspread and arch, and only when he does it again—harder this time, more confident—do I realize I’m half-moaning already.
He gets the message.
His mouth is relentless. He alternates gentle laps and focused pressure, adjusting instantly if a sound or shiver from me tells him something is working especially well. He’s relentless, yes, but methodical—he keeps his tongue broad and flat, then narrows it, then flicks, each move exquisitely calculated. If I gasp, he pauses to repeat exactly what caused it, as if he’s back in the lab, optimizing parameters on a newprototype. Every so often he glances up, checking my face for feedback, acute attention burning in those wide, dark eyes.
When he slides a finger inside, I clench around him, shocked by how ready I am, how sensitized. He freezes, searching my face again, half apologetic, half desperate. “Too much?”
“Don’t stop,” I pant, a hand snapping to the back of his head to anchor him in place. He groans into me, and something about the vibration, the heat and immediacy of it, sends a wild arc through my body. I feel suddenly ferocious, greedy for the first time in my life, overcome with a need so sharp it feels like hunger. I don’t want to teach him—I want to let him ruin me, rewrite whatever rules of physics govern pleasure, become the first and final authority on my body.
The thought should scare me. I’ve spent my whole life being the one in control, the one who understands. But right now, with his mouth on me and his fingers inside me, I don’t want to understand anything. I just want to feel.
He slips another finger in, slower this time, curling upward until every nerve inside me detonates.
Fuck. How did he know to do that?
I squeeze my eyes shut—then pry them open again, desperate to see the look on his face, the almost feverish intensity as he works me open with his hand and mouth, matching every sound I make with an adjustment so precise it’s like he’s in telepathic conversation with my most private self.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Just like that.”
He gets bolder on the next pass, swirling the tip of his tongue and then flattening it for longer, firmer strokes, and the effect is so intense the edges of my vision pulse white. I can’t stop making sounds for him—soft, animal things that would have mortified me with anyone else but that seem to nourish him, make him curiously proud. When he crooks his fingers just right and sucks once, hard, it almost tips me. Some small, rational corner of mybrain thinks this should be impossible, shouldn’t be so easy, and yet I’m already clutching at his hair, my hips grinding against his face, greedy for more.
I try to warn him—I want to, I try, but all that comes out is breathy fragments: “I’m—Logan, I’m going to—Fuck!” and then the rest is whiteout. My body locks and convulses, not once but in a staggering series of earthquakes, each wave harder than the last, until I clamp my thighs around his head (which he seems to appreciate) and come so hard I nearly see stars—real stars, dense and bright, projected in bursts behind my eyes.
Somewhere in the aftershocks, he gentles his movements, soft, almost worshipful, and only then does he gradually ease off, pressing one last kiss to the inside of my knee before raising his head. His mouth is slick and his face is flushed, hair sticking up at insane angles. He looks up at me as if waiting for a grade. I want to laugh, but my body won’t cooperate. All my muscles have temporarily resigned their posts.
He crawls up beside me, careful to keep his full weight on the mattress, and watches with naked delight as I try to catch my breath. He hesitates, then uses a thumb to wipe some excess shine off his chin.
“Was that—” he starts.
“Perfect,” I say, my voice rough and soft, and still echoing. My chest stutters with aftershocks.
He laughs, a short, embarrassed sound, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s done to me. “You sure?”
“Logan.” I reach for his face, pull him down until our foreheads rest together. “If I were any more sure, they’d have to invent a whole new metric for it.”
He grins, huge and helpless, then kisses me—slow and sweet. I taste myself on his lips and, for the first time I can remember, it doesn’t spark shame or self-protection—just a dizzying pride, a sense of rightness as overwhelming as the orgasm itself.
