He doesn’t grab. Doesn’t go straight for my breasts like some adolescent fantasy.
He starts with my shoulders.
His palms slide from the curve of my neck down over my collarbones, then across the tops of my arms, mapping me slowly. Every touch feels like a question: here? okay here?
Every nerve ending answers yes.
When he finally cups my breasts, I gasp.
His hands are big enough that he can hold them fully, thumbs brushing over my nipples with a care that makes my spine arch.
“Still okay?” he asks, sounding as if talking is costing him something.
“Yes,” I manage. “Please don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He explores with his hands first, trying different pressures, different angles, watching my face like a scientist waiting for data.
When he plucks both nipples at once, my breath catches and I dig my fingers into his shoulders. “My goddess likes that.” His voice is rough as he does it again.
“Sneaky man,” I mumble.
His mouth curves. “Just paying attention. You taught me that.”
He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over my left nipple, warm and wet and careful, and I make a deep, throaty sound.
My back bows. My hips roll involuntarily, chasing more, the friction and heat tangling together until my brain short-circuits.
He makes a low, approving noise and does it again, tongue flicking, lips sucking gently. His hand cups my other breast, thumb circling, keeping everything in balance.
“S–shit,” I gasp. “Flavius.”
He hums around me, the vibration shooting straight through my center.
The pleasure is intense but somehow not overwhelming; it’s anchored in him, in us, in the way he keeps checking my face even as he does devastating things to my body.
I thread my fingers through his rich, red hair, holding on, trying to breathe.
This isn’t about forgetting everything that’s wrong. If anything, it’s the opposite.
It’s my body remembering that I exist outside of academic theft and parental disappointment and institutional gaslighting. That I am not just a mind. I am flesh and nerve and wanting.
He lifts his head just enough to look up at me, lips still brushing my skin.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Not enough,” I say honestly with a sigh.
His answering smile against my breast is wicked and tender all at once.
He switches sides, giving my other nipple the same careful attention. The symmetry makes my brain purr in a way that’s almost comical.
My whole body is one live wire.
I rock against him again, the pressure building in that low, insistent way that tells me I’m not as far from the edge as I thought.
He feels it.
