This is different from last night.Slower.Intentional.Like we’re rewriting what happened on his couch—choosing each other instead of being consumed.
“Will you let me?”His voice is low, hopeful.
Instead of answering with words, I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
We undress slowly this time—no fumbling, no desperation.My fingers work each button deliberately while his hands find the zipper of my dress.The rasp of it lowering sounds loud in my quiet apartment.He peels the fabric from my shoulders, watching it pool at my feet like he’s unveiling something precious.
Cool air kisses my skin and my nipples tighten—from temperature or anticipation, I’m not sure.He’s still watching me, drinking me in like I’m a masterpiece he’s discovered in secret.His touch is reverent when he reaches for my bra clasp, his gaze consuming as he slides the straps down my arms.
I push his shirt off his shoulders, palms gliding over muscle I memorized last night but get to appreciate now.By the time we’re both bare and I’m lying across my sheets—the comforter rolled back, my high-thread-count cotton soft beneath me—I’m dizzy with lust and impatient with anticipation.
His exploration of my body is deceptively tender.Not the frantic urgency of last night, but thorough—like he’s learning me properly this time.His mouth traces paths I didn’t know were sensitive: the inside of my wrist, the hollow of my collarbone, the curve where my hip meets my thigh.
Pleasure unfurls hot and sharp with each pass of his lips, each deliberate touch.He maps my body with his hands and mouth, pulling sounds from me I don’t recognize—soft gasps, needy whimpers.Each moan is a confession neither of us dares speak aloud.
His lips close over my nipple and I arch into him.He sucks, teeth grazing lightly, then soothes with his tongue before moving to give equal attention to the other breast.My fingers thread through his hair, holding him there, and when he finally begins his descent—kissing down my ribs, my stomach, the sensitive skin of my lower belly—I’m trembling.
He positions himself between my thighs, spreading them wider, and looks up at me with those golden-green eyes.“You denied me this last night.”The reprimand is wicked and worshipful, edged with humor.
My breathing goes fast and shallow, every muscle tight with anticipation.
The first sweep of his tongue sparks fire through my core and my knees rise automatically, thighs spreading wider, opening for him.He groans against my flesh—actuallygroans—like the taste of me is something he’s been craving.
Within seconds it’s clear he remembers the cartography of me.Pressure points.Rhythms.The exact angle that makes my hips buck off the bed.His tongue circles my clit with practiced precision, then flattens, dragging slowly upward.When he seals his lips over the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks, my hands fist in the sheets.
“Adrien—” His name breaks on my lips.
He adds his fingers—one, then two—curling inside to find that spot that shatters reason.The dual sensation of his tongue on my clit and his fingers stroking deep has me making sounds I’d be embarrassed by if I could think straight.
But I can’t think.Can only feel.The wet heat of his mouth.The obscene, perfect rhythm.The way he watches me fall apart like it’s his favorite view.
My orgasm builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with each pass of his tongue.When it breaks, it’s toe-curling, back-arching, cry-his-name ecstasy.I ride the waves while he works me through it, gentling but not stopping until I’m shaking and oversensitive.
When I finally open my eyes, it’s to greet his satisfied, knowing grin—lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger.
He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then shifts, moving up my body until his hands are planted on either side of my head.He hovers there—close, contained, waiting.
I pull him down for a deep kiss, tasting myself on his tongue.The intimacy of it should feel strange.Instead, it feels right.Natural.
I push his shoulder, urging him onto his back.“My turn.”
Balance is its own kind of power, and after years of wondering what it would feel like to touch him again, to make him lose control, I’m not rushing this.
His powerful heart hammers beneath my palm as I trail kisses down his chest, following his lead.I take my time—nipping at his hip bone, kissing the V of muscle that disappears below his waist, letting my hair brush his skin.By the time I reach him, he’s rock hard, his erection straight and thick, lightly veined, crown already glistening.
I wrap my fingers around his base—he’s hot, heavy in my hand—and his sharp intake of breath makes me smile.When I flatten my tongue and lick up his shaft, his hips jerk.I catch his hungry gaze, hold it, then swirl my tongue over his crown, tasting salt and him, before taking him in.
The weight of him on my tongue, the heat, the way his thighs tense beneath my free hand—it’s intoxicating.I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and the helpless sound he makes is filthy and holy all at once.
He’s not the only one who remembers.I haven’t forgotten how he responds when I twist my hand at his base while my mouth works the crown.I remember the sound he makes when I take him deep enough to gag slightly.I remember how his fingers tighten in my hair—not forcing, just holding on.
With my hand gripping his base and my mouth working him steadily, it’s not long before he swells on my tongue, throbbing, close to the edge.The sensation is crudely erotic—his control fraying, his breath coming in ragged gasps, my name a rough prayer on his lips.
He pulls me off him with a growl, his hand gentle but firm on my jaw.There’s a hint of scolding in his expression, but his eyes are dark with need.
“Not like that.”His voice is rough, wrecked.“When I come tonight, I’m coming inside you.”
It’s not a command.It’s a claim.My body answers before I do—a clench of need, wetness flooding between my thighs.
