Hope leans back fractionally, altering the angle of her body against mine. The intensity between us softens into something steadier.
Embers settling into coals.
We sit with barely an inch between us, breathing the same charged air. Her fingertips rest against my jaw, tracing slow lines.
“If you want,” she murmurs, gentle as dusk, “I can take care of you.”
No pressure. An invitation.
“I want this.” My heart stutters, but my answer is clear. “As long as you do. I don’t have much experience, though.”
A soft smile lifts her lips. “You’re fine. Let me.”
Her hand stays pressed to my jaw, then trails down my chest with deliberation.
I don’t move. My mind flickers through three weeks of quiet evenings together. Reading beside her on this couch, reminding her to eat, watching for a telltale wince when a headache claims her.
Now, her fingers are at my belt buckle, the metal clicking softly as she works it open.
She studies me for a heartbeat. Leans in again. The second kiss is patient and open while her hands move with quiet purpose. The rasp of my zipper seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. My breath catches as her fingers brush against my cock through thin cotton.
Panic unravels, threading itself into something manageable. Her touch is deliberate and unhurried as she slips beneath thewaistband of my boxer briefs. I focus on her pace, the pauses she offers before taking the next step.
I stop trying to keep up. I simply lose myself in the experience.
Her hand emerges with my cock in her grip, thick and flushed dark against her pale fingers. I observe, transfixed, as she strokes from base to tip with deliberate pressure, making my thighs tense and breath catch.
Each upward motion reveals the sensitive head, glistening wet now, making me gasp with pleasure when her thumb circles it. The lamplight catches the movement, casting shadows across her wrist as she works me with growing confidence. My hips lift involuntarily to meet her rhythm.
She pulls back slowly, her forehead brushing mine, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between us. When she parts, her smile is knowing, eyes flicking down to where her hand still moves.
“You’re not in your head anymore,” she whispers.
I exhale with a chort. “Maybe a different head.”
“Good.” Her eyes find mine through lowered lashes. Her voice is soft but steady. “You okay?”
I can barely form words. “Yeah.”
“How does it feel?” Her thumb traces circles on my crown, making my vision blur.
“Like I’m in some sort of heaven…” I swallow hard. “I can’t think straight.”
A smile curves her lips. She shifts closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Can I taste you?”
The question alone nearly makes me come on the spot.
I manage a nod.
She lowers her head, holding my gaze until the last possible moment. The first sensation of her mouth is warm and wet. My hands grip the couch cushions as she takes me deeper, her lipsstretching around my width. Her tongue traces the underside, finding a sensitive spot, causing my hips to jerk involuntarily.
She hums approval, the vibration shooting through my core. When she pulls back, her lips glisten in the dim light, and she focuses on my face as she descends again, taking me deeper this time.
The sight of Hope, eyes half-lidded but locked on mine, mouth full of me—is almost too much to process.
I don’t try to figure out how I got here. I watch, mesmerized, as her hand works me in long, deliberate strokes, her grip tightening just enough on the upstroke to make my vision blur.
Her tongue circles the sensitive head with exquisite precision before taking me deeper to the back of her throat, lips stretching taut. The wet heat of her mouth is almost too much.
