His thumbs hook around the edges of my panties, and I brace myself for the inevitable drag of fabric, but he doesn’t move. He looks up at me instead, waiting.
Not for permission.
Forwant.
Because he knows I’m past consent. Past doubt.
I nod.
And just like that, he begins to worship me.
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of my panties with an unbearable kind of patience. He doesn’t rush, he drags the fabric down, knuckles grazing the soft skin of my hips, then lower, until the cool air brushes between my thighs and the lace joins my skirt on the floor. I should feel exposed. But I don’t.
I feel wanted.
The way he looks at me, his eyes dark, lips parted, like he’s just seen something sacred, sets my skin on fire. He exhales a low curse, head dipping forward, his forehead brushing the soft plane of my abdomen. His palms spread along the outsides of my thighs, holding me steady. Holding me in place. Like he needs a second to breathe me in before he forgets how to be gentle.
“Harper,” he rasps, his voice thick with heat, “if I start, if I taste you, I’m not stopping until you forget every goddamn reason you thought this was a mistake.”
A tremble rolls down my spine so sharp I have to brace myself on his shoulders. My knees are already weak. My core pulses, slick and aching, throbbing with every word he doesn’t say.
I thread my fingers into his hair, not pulling, just holding. Grounding myself in the warmth of him, the strength he’s offering without condition. And when he kisses the inside of my thigh, slow and reverent, tongue barely grazing the sensitive skin, I gasp, head tipping back.
He doesn’t stop.
He keeps working his way inward, alternating between gentle kisses and slow, open, mouthed drags of his tongue that tease but never satisfy. He’s taking his time. Torturing me with it.
By the time his mouth finds the slick heat of me, I’m already trembling.
The first stroke of his tongue, deliberate and filthy, has me moaning so loud I slap a hand over my mouth. He groans in response, low and satisfied, as if my reaction feeds something hungry in him.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs to cup my ass, pulling me closer against his mouth as he begins to devour me in slow, devastating motions. Every flick of his tongue,every press of his lips, is calculated to unravel. And it works.
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. My hips jerk against his face without meaning to, but he just growls and presses me harder into him, tongue fucking me in deep, slow strokes that build and build until I’m panting his name between gasps and half-sobs.
“S-Sebastian-” I choke out, and his grip tightens, tongue circling my clit in a way that sends stars sparking behind my eyes.
It’s too much. Not enough. It’s everything.
When he sucks me into his mouth, softly at first and then deeper, darker, like he wants to own the way I come undone, my thighs clamp around his head. My entire body clenches, heat coiling tight in my gut, pleasure burning so hot I feel like I might shatter.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please, don’t-”
He doesn’t.
His mouth stays locked on me, tongue flicking and curling until I can’t hold it back anymore. The orgasm crashes over me like a wave, hot and all-consuming. My back arches. My hand fists in his hair. My hips buck against his mouth as I come with a cry that tears straight from my throat.
He groans like he’s starving for it. Like the taste of me is something he’s been craving for weeks.
And only when I’m trembling does he finally slow.
He kisses the inside of my thigh again, tender, reverent, and rests his forehead against my hip as I come back to myself. My heart is pounding. My body feels boneless.
And he’s still on his knees.
Still holding me like I’m breakable. Like I’m precious.
I look down at him, breathless, shattered in the best way.
