Her breath stuttered out in shaky pants. Her thighs trembled.
Every whimper, every bitten-off moan, every shudder—it all fed the possessive hunger clawing inside me.
“No one’s ever touched you like this,” I muttered against her, lips brushing her soaked panties. “No one ever will.”
I didn’t give her room to speak. Didn’t want her words—just her sounds. Her surrender.
I kept licking her through the lace, every flick of my tongue a promise:
I could make her beg without ever putting a single finger inside her.
And she would.
Eventually.
Her grip on me tightened, like she was about to fall apart.
Good. Let her.
Because this?
This was just the beginning.
I wasn't a patient man.
Never have been. Never fucking would be.
So when she hesitated—even for half a breath—I didn’t wait for permission.
I took.
My fingers hooked under that delicate lace, and I dragged her panties down her thighs slow enough to make her tremble. The fabric whispered against her skin, a teasing contrast to the storm brewing in my chest.
She stepped out of them without a word.
"Good girl."
The second they hit the floor, I pressed my lips against her pussy like it was a goddamn reflex and devoured her.
No hesitation. No warm-up.
Just tongue, heat, and hunger.
The first taste hit me like a fucking shot to the chest—sweet, sinful, wrecked with want.
She gasped, hips jerking, hands grabbing my shoulders like she didn’t know what to do with herself.
I didn’t give her a choice.
I licked deeper, harder, not just to make her moan—to brand her.
To make her body remember this moment every time she even thought about walking away.
Every sound she made was mine.
Every twitch, every gasp, every desperate grip of her fingers in my hair—mine.
I groaned into her, the taste of her coating my tongue like I’d earned it.
