In the moment, I can’t even fathom a future where I don’t have this man as an option, as exasperating as I consider him most of the time.
The “please” works like magic.
He grins—genuine and so unlike the scowl he wears in public—and resumes with twice the intensity.
This time, he doesn’t just use his mouth.
His hands skate up my sides, his fingers spreading over my ribs to cup my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples with the rhythm of his tongue.
Too many sensations flood me at once, and I can’t control the noises spilling out of me. Every movement of his tongue, every squeeze, every flick builds me higher and higher, until I’m so strung out I think I might die from bliss and anticipation.
He wants me to break. He wants to be the one who unmakes me.
The challenge becomes mutual. How long can I last before I explode in his hands and lose the power he offered me?
I try to hold on, I really do, but he knows my body better than I do, and he’s merciless.
He brings me right to the edge over and over again, pulling back just when I’m about to fall before repeating the process.
When he’s not touching my breasts, they ache. My body quivers, begging for more, for that final push.
I think I might cry, or laugh, or both, but I can’t do anything except ride the waves of this torment.
It’s a marathon of stimulation, a study in delayed gratification.
With one final suck of my clit and pinch of my nipple, he finally hurtles me into the abyss. I come so hard, I’m pretty sure the world cracks open.
My back arches, my vision whites out, and I scream his name as my muscles sag and I collapse on top of him.
For a moment, all I want is to have him wrap his arms around me and cradle me close. Protected and warm.
But that’s not what I’m going to get.
“You said to eat you.” His dark, rumbling voice vibrates through every trembling inch of me, cutting through my blurry brain. “You didn’t say I had to do it on my back.”
I barely have a second to process the cocky twist of his mouth before he’s in motion.
Sculpted arms snake around my waist, hoisting me up and down in one smooth, inescapable maneuver.
The way he handles my body like he already knows its blueprint, every ligament and hollow and scar mapped to his private coordinates, never fails to shock my system.
My head spins as the ceiling slides past.
Then my shouldersthunkonto the mattress between his thighs.
In his unrelenting grip, my hips anchor at his jaw, my knees braced on either side of his head. I’m stretched out, pinned, and exposed, offered up on some ancient altar where he’s the priest.
Ready to accept the sacrifice.
And I’m ready too.
His mouth descends on me again, rougher, deeper, obliterating any illusion of control I thought I had when I climbed on his face.
From this angle, every movement of his tongue feels amplified, sharp, and almost savage. Each flick and swirl drags a ragged gasp from deep in my chest, building a pressure that causes my toes to curl and my vision to pulse at the edges.
I writhe, trying to shove away. His hands lock around my thighs, ironclad and immovable, refusing to let me retreat even a millimeter.
I nearly sob from the overwhelming sensations. I want to scream, claw at the sheets, maybe even weep, but my hands are useless, fisted in the duvet or pressed against his knees, the world funneled to the single, relentless point where his mouth devours me.
