I want to see how far down it goes. Want to strip her bare and map every inch of flushed skin with my mouth.
Later.
I lean in and take my first taste.
Sweet. God, she's sweet.
The flavor explodes across my tongue. Brown sugar and honey and her. I could get addicted to this. To her. I already am after one taste.
My alpha purrs deep in my chest. Satisfied. Possessive. Mine.
I lick a slow stripe through her folds and she gasps. Her hips jerk. One hand flies from the shelf to my hair, fingers tangling, gripping, pulling.
I do it again. Slower this time. Taking my time to learn her. To catalog every ridge and fold. To find what makes her breath catch and her thighs tremble and her fingers tighten in my hair.
"Oh God." Her head falls back against the shelf with a soft thunk. "Pedro, that's... oh..."
I circle her clit with my tongue. Testing. Her whole body jerks.
There.
I focus my attention. Circling with deliberate strokes. Flicking with the tip of my tongue. Sucking gently. Working her with the same methodical precision I bring to everything else in my life. Paying attention to every gasp, every moan, every pull of my hair that tells me I've found what she needs.
Her taste fills my mouth. Coats my tongue. I'm drowning in it, in her, and I never want to surface.
When I slide two fingers inside her, she cries out. Loud. Echoing off the walls of the small closet.
"Shh." I press a kiss to her inner thigh. "Everyone will hear you."
"I don't care." Her hips rock against my hand, desperate and uncoordinated. "Don't stop. God, please don't stop."
Let them hear. Let the whole town know that she's mine, that I'm the one making her fall apart, that she chose me to put her back together.
I curl my fingers inside her, searching. When I find that spot that makes her whole body jerk and a broken sound tear from her throat, I press harder.
My mouth returns to her clit. Sucking with steady pressure. Licking in rhythm with my fingers.
She's so wet I can hear it. The obscene sound of my fingers sliding in and out, the slick evidence of her need coating my hand, dripping down my wrist.
I add a third finger. She's tight, gripping me, her inner walls fluttering around my knuckles. I can feel her getting close. Feel the way her muscles are tensing, the way her breathing has gone shallow and erratic, the way she's pulling my hair hard enough that it stings.
"That's it." I murmur against her. My voice is hoarse. Almost unrecognizable. "Let go. I've got you. Let go for me."
I press harder on that spot inside her. Circle her clit with my tongue. Once. Twice.
She shatters.
Her scream echoes off the walls. High and broken and beautiful enough that I almost come in my scrubs just from the sound of it. Her whole body goes rigid, back arching off the wall, thighs clamping around my head.
I don't stop. I work her through it. Fingers pumping. Tongue moving. Drawing out every aftershock, every tremor, every pulse of her orgasm until she's sobbing my name and pushing at my head because it's too much, too intense, too good.
Only then do I gentle my touch. Slow my fingers. Press soft kisses to her thighs as she comes down, as her breathing slowly evens out, as the grip on my hair loosens to something almost tender.
When she finally goes limp, boneless and spent, I press one last kiss to her center and pull back.
She's thoroughly undone.
Her hair has fallen completely out of its bun, wild around her face. Her cheeks are flushed bright red. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused, pupils blown so wide there's almost no brown left. Her mouth is open, gasping for air. Tear tracks streak her face but these tears are different. Satisfied. Released.
