My mouth traces the path I've memorised: throat, claiming mark (she shivers every time, the scar tissue more sensitive than the surrounding skin), collarbone, the specific spot between her breasts where her heartbeat is loudest. My tongue reads her responses, the jade patterns mapping pleasure in real time, adjusting pressure and pattern based on what her body tells mine.
"Lower," she directs, hands in my hair. Six months of knowing what she wants and how to ask for it.
My mouth moves down her ribs, her stomach, the hollow of her hipbone. Her thighs part as I settle between them, and the bond transmits what she's feeling as I work: the anticipation, the heat of my breath, the first contact of my tongue against her. Six months of refinement means I know exactly how to build her toward the edge and hold her there.
"The vibration," she gasps. "Do the vibration thing."
The vibration thing. Bioluminescent patterns on my tongue producing targeted oscillation against the bundle of nerves that makes her back arch. A technique we discovered in month two that she has since requested with increasing specificity.
I give her the vibration, and her orgasm builds from both sides: the climbing tension in her nervous system and the reflected response in mine. When she comes, the dual sensation crashes through the bond and my markings flare opalescent and the aftershocks carry back and forth between us until she's pushing at my shoulders, oversensitive, laughing.
"Up. I need you inside me before the loop makes me come again from aftershocks alone."
"That happened once."
"It happenedthree times. The bond makes aftershock orgasms a genuine logistical concern."
"I fail to see the concern."
"The concern is that I can't walk afterward." She pulls me up her body, wraps her legs around my hips. "I want the knot. Now. Before I lose my mind."
I position myself and push forward slowly, and the first press of entry sends sensation cascading through both our systems. Six months of calibration means my body fits hers with a precision that improves every time: proportion, temperature, lubrication, all autonomic, all responsive. The ridges dragagainst nerve endings that the bond lets me feel from both sides, each one a distinct pulse of friction that registers in my awareness and hers simultaneously.
"God, that's—" She grips my shoulders, adjusting her angle by a fraction that changes everything. "Right there. The second ridge. It hits—"
"I know where it hits." I can feel exactly where it hits. "I can feel it from your side."
"That's so unfair."
"You initiated the bond."
"Best decision I ever made." Her hips rock, pulling me deeper, and the thick ridge at my base presses against her entrance. Not entering. Not yet. The tease of it, the pressure and the promise, something we've learned to extend because the anticipation is its own kind of pleasure.
"Please." Her voice drops. "I'm ready. I've been ready."
"I know you have." My thumb finds her, jade patterns vibrating, and she jerks against me. "But I enjoy watching you ask."
"Sadist."
"Strategist. There's a difference."
"There really isn't—oh—"
I push the knot past her entrance, and the stretch is the thing that makes her lose language. Her mouth opens, no sound, her body expanding to accommodate the thickest part of me while the bond transmits the sensation in both directions: the tight, gripping heat from my side and the fullness, the impossible fullness, from hers. The knot swells inside her, locking us together, and the sound she makes when it seats fully is something I will carry in my sensory memory for the rest of our synchronised lifespan.
"Ohgod. Oh god, that's— every time. Every time it feels like the first time."
"Your body remembers. Mine calibrates. But the bond makes it new." I rock my hips, grinding deep, and the locked knot means every movement is internal: ridges shifting against her walls, the vibrating base pressing against the spot that makes her vision go white. The dual sensation from both sides is staggering. "Like this?"
"Like that. Don't stop. Don't—"
I don't stop. The grinding rhythm we've developed over six months is slow, deliberate, devastating. When I can't thrust, the focus narrows to pressure and angle and the specific rotation that drags the ridges across every nerve ending. My thumb is still vibrating against her, and the combination of the knot locked inside her and the external stimulation and the bond's feedback loop creates an escalation that builds exponentially.
"I'm close," she says, and I can feel how close: the tightening, the climbing heat, the way her body grips me harder with each grind. "I want to feel you too. Come with me."
"Tell me when."
"Now."
