He finds my breast with his mouth and I gasp.
“Good?” He pulls back immediately, eyes searching my face. “Too much?”
“Don't stop.” I grab his head, pull him back down. “Don't you dare stop.”
He laughs against my skin, a sound I've never heard from him before, low and warm and wondering, and then his mouth closes over my nipple and I stop thinking entirely.
His hands continue their mapping while his tongue works. One slides down my back, cups my ass, presses me harder against him. I can feel him through his trousers, hard and ready, and a thrill of nervous anticipation shoots through me.
Later. That's a problem for later.
Right now his other hand is sliding around to my stomach, fingers trailing lower, and I make a sound I don't recognize as he brushes against my waistband.
“Can I?”
“Yes. Kovren, yes.”
He works the laces with shaking fingers. It takes him longer than it should, his hands clumsy with want, but finally he manages, and then his hand slides inside and I cry out as his fingers find where I'm slick and aching.
“Gods.” His voice is wrecked. “You're so wet. So sweet.”
Ridiculous, but I can’t even argue. I rock against his hand, chasing the pressure. “More. Please.”
He gives me more. One thick finger slides inside me and I gasp at the stretch of it. Just one finger, and already I feel full. He must feel my tension because he stills immediately.
“Too much?”
“No. Just... wait a minute. You're big. Everywhere.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to mine, his finger still inside me, not moving. “We don't have to?—”
“I want to.” I rock my hips, taking him deeper, and we both groan. “Don’t stop. Just go slow. Let me adjust.”
He goes slow. So achingly, torturously slow that I want to scream. His finger moves in and out in a rhythm that makes me mindless, and when he adds a second, I feel the stretch burn in the best way. His thumb finds the spot that makes me see stars and circles it while his fingers work, and I'm grinding against his hand, lost in the sensation of being filled and touched and wanted.
“Look at you.” His voice is reverent. “Taking my fingers so well. So tight around me. Can you take another?”
“Yes—” The word breaks off into a moan as he adds a third finger, stretching me wider than I've ever been stretched, and the fullness is overwhelming in the best possible way.
“That's it.” He watches my face, drinking in every expression. “That's it, Maren. Let me see you fall apart.”
His thumb presses harder, his fingers curl inside me, and I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my whole body clenching around his fingers, my nails leaving marks in his shoulders. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, until I'm limp and trembling in his lap.
“Beautiful.” He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. “The most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
I reach for the laces of his trousers. “Your turn.”
He catches my wrist. “You don't have to?—”
“I want to.” I meet his eyes. “Let me touch you. Please.”
He releases my wrist.
My hands shake as I work his laces. He helps, his own fingers steadier now, and when he finally springs free, I just stare for a moment.
He's proportional. Of course he is. But seeing it, thick and long and flushed dark with wanting, makes the reality hit different.
