"I'm already here."
"Closer."
I lean forward. His hand slides into my hair and he kisses me. Deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that's a conversation, that says things neither of us has put into words yet because we've been too busy with pregnancy tests and uncles and proposals.
I pull back. Press my forehead to his.
"I want to try something," I say.
His thumb traces my jaw. "Tell me."
"I want to sit on your face."
His hand stills.
I watch his pupils blow wide. Watch the muscle in his jaw twitch. He looks at me with an expression that is caught somewhere between surprise and the very specific intensity he gets when I say something filthy. Which isn't often. Mia Lawson, who is helpful and quiet, has become significantly less quiet in this bed over the last five months, but direct requests still cost me something. Still make me blush.
I'm blushing now. I can feel it climbing my chest.
"Yes," he says. One word. No hesitation. He shifts down the bed, settling flat on his back, and looks up at me. "Get up here."
My heart is hammering. It's ridiculous. I've had this man in every room of this house. I've done things with him I didn't knowI was capable of wanting, let alone doing. But this feels new. This feels like an edge I haven't stepped off yet.
I move up his body. Knees either side of his chest. Then higher. His hands find my thighs. Big. Warm. Steadying.
"You control this," he says. Looking up at me. "You set the pace. If it's too much, you lift up. Understood?"
I nod.
"Words, Mia."
"Understood."
His hands slide up to my hips. He guides me forward. I grip the headboard.
And then his mouth is on me and my brain whites out.
It shouldn't still surprise me. After everything. After the library and the table and the bedroom and that time against the bathroom wall when we were supposed to be getting ready for dinner at the main house. His mouth shouldn't still take me apart this efficiently.
It does.
He starts slow. Long, flat strokes that make my thighs shake. His hands on my hips are firm but not controlling, holding me steady, letting me move, letting me find the angle that works. I rock forward. His tongue presses harder. I gasp and grip the headboard tighter.
"Oh—" My head drops between my arms. "Iosif."
He makes a sound against me. A low hum that vibrates through my entire body. He's enjoying this. I can tell from the grip on my hips, from the way his fingers dig in slightly, from the sounds he's making. He likes this. He likes me above him, likes looking up at me, likes the fact that I asked for it.
I start to move. Tentative at first. A slow grind forward and back, finding the rhythm, finding the pressure. His tongue adjusts to match me. Wherever I go, he follows. Whatever angle I find, he meets it.
This is what he does. In bed and out of it. He pays attention. He reads the situation. He adjusts. The same man who mapped the Vinzlee vacuum in an afternoon and restructured a power dynamic over a phone call applies that same focused intelligence to the movement of my hips, and the result is devastating.
I move faster. His hands tighten. I feel the edge building, the familiar hot pull low in my belly, and I chase it. No self-consciousness. No performance. Just me and his mouth and the headboard under my hands and the sound of my own breathing, loud and ragged in the quiet room.
"Right there," I pant. "Don't move, don't change anything—"
He doesn't. He stays exactly where he is, tongue flat, pressure constant, and I grind down against him. The orgasm breaks over me in a rush that makes me cry out and curl forward, my forehead pressed against the headboard, my thighs clamping around his head, my whole body shaking.
He holds me through it. Hands firm on my hips. Mouth soft now, gentling, easing me down. Small, light passes of his tongue that make me twitch and shiver with each aftershock.
