The left corner of his mouth kicks up. “Wanna practice?”
“What if I don’t ... know how to tell you what to do?” Embarrassment bows my head. I’d say I wasn’t sure how I got here—a thirty-two-year-old woman who still barely knows her own body despite one night of trying to learn—but I do know.I know exactly how I ended up here, shame burning away any pride I had for my radical self-awareness.
“I’m pretty coachable, take direction pretty well, too. Don’t worry about that.” His knuckle finds my chin, lifting my face towards his. “There’s one person who should be embarrassed about this Ren, and it’s not you. Trust me.”
“I do, trust you,” I murmur.
And I do, more than anyone.
Which makes it easy to say a whispered “Yes” when he asks again if I want to practice.
His mouth drags across mine, slow, controlled, measured. His teeth scrape along my jawbone, and he inhales when his tongue runs along the line of my neck. He pulls away, grinning when I whimper. His eyes might as well be the night sky, and his thumbs kiss my skin when he hooks them under the band of my shorts. “Lay back.”
“On your—on your kitchen island?”
He nods. “Yeah, I like to eat here.”
My thighs clench, and all the air leaves my lungs. “Is that ... what you’re doing?”
“Yeah,” Miller says, voice rough when he drops to his knees. His thumbs swirl against my skin, and I don’t think I can breathe. “Lay down, Ren.”
Exhaling, I roll my shoulders back and slowly lie back. The cool granite bites against my shoulder blades, but Miller’s warm, worn fingers trace patterns on my thighs as he carefully pulls my shorts down.
A hand wraps around each of my ankles, and he drapes my legs over the ridges of his shoulders, dragging me closer to the edge of the island. His palms drift across my calves, tracing my knees before he grips my thighs, and his mouth brushes along the sensitive skin.
“Fuck,” he says, voice rough.
I start to push up on my elbows. “What?”
Dark eyes flick up to mine, his mouth tugs into a lazy grin, and he presses his thumbs into my skin. “Ren. Relax.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Nothing to be sorry for. You can watch, if you want.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I’d rather you did.”
“Why?”
“So you can see how good this is. For me. How much I’m going to enjoy myself.” He presses his mouth to the inside of my thigh, teeth grazing my skin when he says, “So I can see you.”
“You want to—” I start, but his teeth sink into my thigh, and he groans, tongue dragging over the marks he left. My breath catches, head dropping back between my shoulder blades. He swirls his tongue against my skin again, and I make this sound, a tiny, breathy whimper I don’t think I’ve ever made before.
“Fuck. I like that sound.” His fingers dig into my thighs, and I feel his mouth move against my skin when he says, “You wanna make it again?”
I straighten, looking back down at him, and whisper, “Okay.”
“Good at taking direction, remember? Tell me what you like and what you don’t.” He looks up at me, wide hands keeping my thighs parted, until I nod and his mouth tugs to the side in a grin.
He tilts his head, a still-sleep-mussed wave drops down onto his forehead, he breathes against me, a deep inhale and exhale before his tongue drags—
Another sound I don’t think anyone has ever made me make catches in my throat, strangled and echoing across his kitchen.
I lose track of all the new noises and feelings, actually.
It all disappears in the way his tongue moves against me—purposeful. Intentional. Slowly, like he’s taking his time and he’d stay on his knees in this kitchen forever if I asked.
In the way I don’t really have to say anything at all, but he listens to my breathing, he matches his movements to mine. Hemoves his tongue in slow circles when my hips do. He speeds up when my thighs clench around him.
And he doesn’t stop when my shoulders bow off the counter, my moans echoing throughout the empty kitchen.
