“Saints,” Clarke gasps out, arching her back. He laughs, the vibration singing through her in a symphony, and slides his strong hands up around her ass to pin her in place. There’s a hint of stubble on his cheeks, and it scrapes the sensitive skin of her inner thighs as he settles in to mapping her out with a dedication she honestly should’ve expected.
It’s been a while since Clarke’s had sex, and longer still since anyone’s gone down on her. She hadn’t quite forgotten how good it is, how all-consuming it is, how everything else falls away when someone who knows what they’re doing andlikesdoing it is between her legs, but has it beenthisgood before? She’s quaking in what seems like less than a minute.
Julian dials it back, shifting to light flicks of his tongue. She can feel his smile against her skin when she writhes to get more. “Getting impatient?”
“Shut up,” Clarke complains. There’s an edge up ahead, and she desperately wants to go over it. She slings one knee over his shoulder and tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling lightly, trying to get him back to where she wants him. “Keep going.”
“But Ilikemaking you squirm. I’ve been thinking about it. Dreaming about it.” He licks a long, slow strip up her center, stopping to swirl his tongue around her entrance and groan at the taste. “And this ismyreward.”
“You are—the—worst.” Clarke gets the words out between breaths. Every touch feels shattering. Every heartbeat pushes her closer to the brink.
“Tell me more about how terrible I am,” he says, slipping a hand beneath her elevated leg, trailing his fingertips along the sensitive crease where ass meets thigh, holding her steady when she jolts at the sensation. He draws a finger up through her folds, gathering wetness on the way before drawing lazy circles around her clit. “Tell me more about how terrible my fingers are, specifically.”
Clarke twists, seeking. “Need more—evidence.”
“A hands-on demonstration. Of course,” Julian says, enjoying himself, and slides two fingers into her.
Clarke remembers that she needs to be quiet at the very lastsecond, and bites down hard on her bottom lip while her awareness narrows only to the feel of his fingers in her body. Julian holds still for a second, letting her adjust, but Clarke doesn’t need it. There’s pressure and stretch, but saints know she’s wet enough for this. Formorethan this. She rolls her hips experimentally, seeing if she can catch the heel of his hand against her clit.
“Your request is noted,” Julian murmurs, and starts moving his hand as he puts his mouth on her again.
It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s everything. Clarke is made up entirely of sparks of light, and they are congregating into something raw and powerful. “Julian. Julian,please.”
“Just like that,” Julian encourages, his breath hot and the edges of his teeth nearly enough to send her spiraling. “My name, just like that.”
His voice hitches. She looks down—and isn’tthata sight, his head between her thighs, his eyes flicking up to her face—and sees the shoulder of his free hand working as he jerks himself off. She wants to comment, but the rhythm of his tongue and the curl of his fingers change, and she can’t find coherent thought again for a good ten seconds. Then he changes it up again, andagain.
She braces herself and uses the grip she has on his hair to pull his head back a little. “Do you have a checklist?”
He blinks placidly, docile under her hands. “Of places and ways I want to fuck you? Yes.”
“No, of—you do? Of—no, Julian, of—oftechniques, that you’re trying out on me.”
“Oh. Of course,” he says, shameless, and crooks his fingers into a spot that makes Clarke’s vision go sideways. It draws a needy whimper out of her, and he smiles, satisfied. “I’m figuringout what you like best. I think I’m doing a very good job, don’t you?”
He looks unbelievably hot, sitting back on his heels with one fist wrapped around his dick and his other hand lifting Clarke closer and closer to a peak. He’s fully clothed except where his pants are pulled down just enough for access. He’s flushed, all up his neck and jaw. His hair is a disaster. His mouth and chin are wet.
Clarke has never wanted someone so much in herlife.
Docility doesn’t last long for Julian Casperi. He dives back between her legs and ramps up his efforts. Clarke is mush, Clarke is starlight, Clarke is an inferno, Clarke is almost almostalmost—
She falls apart with a scream she stifles in her elbow, every muscle in her body bursting into confetti and melting into a puddle. Julian gentles her through it with easy thrusts of his fingers, then pulls them out and seals his mouth over her entrance instead. He works himself to orgasm with his tongue lapping at her, his free arm wrapped around her back to keep her from escaping even as she whines with oversensitivity, like he needs the taste of her to find his own release.
He comes into his hand and collapses, boneless, forehead against Clarke’s inner thigh. They stay like that, catching their breath, Clarke absently working tangles out of his hair while wondering how she’s supposed to be normal after this. She gets why Julian had this as a boundary before. Clarke’s had her fair share of casual sex. This wasn’t that.
He rouses himself eventually and staggers off to the bathroom. There’s the sound of running water, presumably as he washes his hands, and then he reappears with a damp cloth andhis dick back in his pants. He holds the cloth out to her but appears to short-circuit halfway through the motion, eyes locked on where her skirt is still flipped up.
Abruptly self-conscious, Clarke goes to cover herself. He lets out a wordless noise of displeasure and is on her before she can straighten out the fabric, which he shoves upward again as he uses his body to tip her sideways and lay her out on the couch.
He plants himself on the cushion as well, next to and above her, caging her in. He kisses her, open and filthy and messy—she can taste herself on his tongue—and drives his fingers into her again.
Clarke’s dazed, still recovering from her orgasm and trying to catch up with all this rapid motion. Her body jackknifes, both her hands going to clasp the tattooed forearm attached to the fingers grinding into her. He lets her arms move, but holds the rest of her down, wrapping one of his legs over hers to keep her open.
He looks down at her, arm working in even motions. “Is this okay?”
Clarke is nothing but sensation. Nothing but contact. “Overstimulated. Julian—Julian—”
“I know,” he says, almost apologetic. “But one wasn’t enough. I need to see you come again. Like this, riding my fingers. Can you?”
