Oh.
Oh, stars.
The first touch of his mouth makes my whole body jolt. He kisses the inside of my knee, slow and lingering, then trails upward with deliberate cruelty, lips and tongue mapping sensitive skin until I’m already squirming.
“Tatek,” I gasp.
He hums against me, pleased, and then his mouth is on me properly—hot, wet, devastating.
I cry out, hands flying into his hair as his tongue slides over me with slow, expert precision. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase the end.
He takes his time learning me.
Learning what makes me arch.
What makes me whimper.
What makes my hips start moving on their own.
“Just like that,” I breathe. “Please—don’t stop?—”
“I won’t,” he promises softly, and proves it.
By the time I’m shaking apart under his mouth, coming hard with his name breaking out of me like a prayer, I’m already wrecked.
He comes back up, eyes dark, mouth slick, and kisses me deep while I’m still trembling.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
He doesn’t argue.
When he finally pushes into me, slow and careful and impossibly deep, I sob outright, clutching at his shoulders.
“Too much?” he asks, breath ragged.
“Perfect,” I say, without hesitation.
We move together like we’ve always known how.
Slow at first.
Deep.
Every thrust deliberate, intimate, claiming.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, needing more, and he groans like he’s barely holding on.
“You feel—” he breaks off, shaking his head. “Stars, Mara.”
“Don’t stop,” I beg.
He doesn’t.
The world narrows to heat and skin and breath and the sound of us together in the starlit garden. I come again with his name in my mouth, and when he follows, burying himself deep and groaning into my neck, it feels less like an ending and more like a vow finally spoken.
After, we collapse together, glistening and damp and breathless.
I curl half atop him, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
