“Flavius—” Her fingers pull at my hair, no longer careful, just desperate. “I’m— I’m going to—”
“Yes,” I murmur against her. “Let go. I have you.”
As I seal my mouth more firmly over her clit, I slide two fingers into her and curl them, her body rising to meet whatever I give.
She comes apart.
Her orgasm crashes through her like a wave breaking on rock—violent and beautiful. She cries out, loud, no attempt to smother it. Her back arches off the bed; her thighs clamp around my head; her fingers dig into my scalp.
I don’t stop. Not until the shudders become too much and she whimpers my name in a pleading way that tells me she needs air, needs quiet.
I ease off slowly, kissing her gently as I withdraw my fingers, moving slowly now, giving her body time to settle.
She collapses back onto the bed, breath heaving, dark hair a wild halo.
I kiss my way back up her body—hip, stomach, ribs, the valley between her breasts—tasting the salt of sweat and the faint metallic tang of her pleasure on my tongue.
By the time I reach her mouth, she’s blinking up at me, dazed and radiant.
I kiss her softly.
She drags me closer with surprising strength, hands fisting in my hair, tongue sweeping into my mouth like she wants to taste the echoes of herself on me.
Heat flares sharp and bright.
“Your turn,” she breathes against my lips.
My cock throbs so hard it hurts.
“Sophia—” I start, already shaking my head. “This was—”
“I’m not finished,” she says. There is steel under the softness now. “I told you earlier: I want to give to you. Let me.”
I close my eyes for a heartbeat.
Breathe.
When I open them again, she’s watching me with that narrow, focused look she gets when she’s about to take apart a problem and reassemble it better.
She pushes gently at my chest.
“Lie down,” she says.
The command hits some old part of me that used to flinch at any order.
But not from her.
From her, it feels… safe.
I roll onto my back.
She straddles my hips, the same position as this morning, but with nothing between us now but heat.
Her hands go to the button of my jeans. They fumble once, twice, then find their rhythm.
“Okay?” she asks, fingers pausing on the zipper.
“More than okay,” I manage, voice wrecked.
