“And here.” He kisses the top of my underwear. I suck in a startled breath.
I wriggle, and he peels down my Friday panties. Kisses me on my mound. And I’m glad that I shaved this morning, everywhere.
“You’re bare,” he says and presses his mouth lower, at the seam of my sex. I gasp.
I sit up a little and look at the top of his head. “You don’t like me shaved?”
“I like you any way. But I was looking forward to finding out if your hair is cinnamon-colored everywhere.”
He licks me, and I almost skyrocket off the rug. He gives me another slow, sweet lick, taking his time, savoring me. And I lie back with a moan.
“God, I love the sounds you make.”
“God, I love the things you do.” I sigh.
And then I can’t talk anymore. Words leave me. Heck, language and any rational conscious thought leaves me. I become pure sensation. He goes down on me like he does everything, with intense concentration and the intention to do things exactly right.
I’ve never had my pleasure focused on to such a degree, and it’s intoxicating. The way he’s teasing, licking, sucking me wildly, and the satisfied sounds he makes as I go higher make it clear he’s getting off on this as well.
Ronan is lord and master of oral. I lose control when he pushes two fingers into me. His rhythm in and out matches the rhythm of the long, savoring licks he gifts my clit. I grasp his hair and grind myself against him over and over until eventually I shatter into a thousand tiny pieces of a bliss so intense that even the gradual drifting down from it is better than any sex I’ve ever had.
I’m a puddle on a rug by the fire, absolutely disintegrated. Ronan rains soft kisses on my chest and neck, bringing me back to slow consciousness.
“You’re incredible,” he says. “I could get dangerously addicted.”
He kisses my lips, and I taste myself on him.
“Okay,” I say again. “I’m not going to argue because I’ve never felt anything that amazing. Ever.”
“Good,” he grunts.
Less than two weeks, I remind myself,that’s all we have, even if he does stay a few extra days through Christmas.
“Daddy!” a distant cry sounds from upstairs.
We jump apart.
“Fuck,” he swears.
“No,” I whine. “Not now. Not tonight.”
He groans, a rueful sound. And kisses me, quick and rough with pent-up passion.
“I’ll get her,” he says when we part.
“Are you coming back?”
He shakes his head regretfully. “I have to leave.”
“What?”
“I’m only here on a break. We’re shooting through the night, remember? But I’m off tomorrow, so I’m all yours then.”
“And I’ll be yours,” I say. “Completely.”
“I have to go upstairs. Stop torturing me. I can’t fucking wait until tomorrow.”
I give him another long, lingering kiss and then push him away before I can’t give him up.
