“God, Graham?—”
He switched sides, lavishing the same torture while his hand slid down, popping my jeans button one-handed. Zipper rasped down slow, deliberate.
“Lift.”
I did. He dragged jeans and panties off together, leaving me bare while he knelt between my thighs, still in his jeans, cock straining against denim.
The imbalance should’ve bothered me. Instead it made me feel like a queen, because Graham looked like a man about to worship.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice shredded. “Fucking perfect. So wet I can smell you from here.”
Heat flooded my face and lower. “Stop talking and touch me.”
Big hands wrapped my knees, spreading me wide. Slowly. Eyes locked on mine, giving me every out.
I didn’t take it.
He kissed the inside of one thigh, open-mouthed, stubble scraping, then the other. Higher. Breath ghosting over slick folds. I trembled.
“Graham, please?—”
His tongue dragged through me in one long, slow stroke.
I cried out, raw, shameless, back bowing off the bed. He groaned against me like I was the best thing he’d ever tasted, tongue circling my clit, sucking gently, then harder, two thick fingers sliding inside, curling, stroking the spot that made my vision blur.
My hips bucked. He pinned me with one forearm across my stomach, immovable, while his mouth worked relentlessly. Wet sounds filled the room, obscene and perfect.
This. This is what I’ve been afraid of. Not the sex. The surrender.
“Don’t stop—” I was babbling, voice wrecked. “Right there, fuck, Graham, don’t you dare stop?—”
He curled harder, sucked my clit deep, and I shattered.
The orgasm tore through me, violent, endless, thighs clamping his head, fingers yanking his hair, his name ripping from my throat. He licked me through it, gentling only when I started shaking.
When I collapsed, gasping, he kissed my hip, looked up with a filthy grin. “Good?”
“Get up here and fuck me properly.”
He crawled up, kissing me deep. I tasted myself, salty-sweet, and I shoved at his jeans. He kicked them off, cock springing free. Thick, hard, the tip already slick.
I wrapped my hand around him. Hot. Heavy. He hissed, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
“Rose, if you keep that up?—”
I stroked again, slow, tight, feeling him throb against my palm. “Condom. Nightstand.”
Hands shaking, he rolled it on. Then he settled between my thighs, weight braced, forehead to mine.
“Still okay?”
I locked my legs around him and pulled.
He pushed in slow, a relentless stretch, inch by thick inch until he bottomed out. We both groaned, loud and broken.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice gravel. “You feel— tight, hot, perfect. Like you were made for me.”
And there it was. The thing I’d been running from. Not how good he felt inside me, but how right.
