There was no rush. He started at my throat, mapped every inch with his tongue, with his teeth, with the heat of his breath. He stopped at my breasts, sucking at the nipple until I arched for him, then moving down, down, his hands bracing my hips as he kissed and licked and praised every inch.
When he reached my pussy, he set a pillow under my ass. Lifted me, open, for him.
He looked up the line of my body and said, “Tell me what you want.”
I said, “Your mouth, Daddy, please,” and the bond hummed and burned hot.
He obliged.
He buried his face in me. He licked tentatively at first, working the slick through every fold, every ridge, then settling at the clit. He sucked, the pressure perfect, not too much, not too little. He licked into me, deep, then shallow, then circled the clit again. The man had all the time in the world, and he used it.
I writhed.
It was not a performance. There was no one to watch, no one to land it for. I squirmed, I moaned, I caught his hair in both hands and pulled, and he growled, and the growl vibrated against me. The pleasure built, quick this time, urgent, needy, not the measured work of the night before but a fire, an impatience, a hunger for more.
He slipped a finger inside.
It was large—he was large—but he applied no force, only pressure, allowing the heat of his hand and the slick of me to open me. He curled the finger and the world went bright.
He added a second, and I gasped, and the bond sang.
He worked the fingers as he ate me, and when I started to come, he added the pressure of his thumb at the rim of my ass.
I bucked, hard. The orgasm crashed through me.
He continued, pushing the orgasm further, the tongue insistent, the fingers ruthless, the thumb pressing at the ring, opening me, so that as the climax crested and broke I felt, for the first time, the stretch and the want in the same instant. I was coming and begging and shuddering, and cared nothing for the noise or whether the city outside heard it, because it was mine, it was his, it was for us.
He drew back.
He looked up at me, face wet with me, eyes gold and wild.
“You want it again?” he said, a dare.
I nodded, frantic, and he laughed—a bright, delighted sound I had never heard from him, not in any of our time together.
“Greedy,” he said. “Good girl.”
He rolled me onto my side, then behind, so I was on my knees, ass high, head down on the wine-red blanket. He spread my thighs, wide, and brought his mouth to me from behind. Licked up the seam of me, then at the clit, then, at last, at the rim of my ass. He worked the tongue there, the spit and the heat, until it opened for him, until I was shivering and pressing back, needing it.
He used a finger, then two, to open me. He worked them deliberately, then faster, then crooked them just so, so that I was full and stretched and desperate for him.
When I was shaking, he drew back and reached for the table by the bed.
There was a plug there.
It was black, short, thick at the base, the kind of thing owned by someone who had never apologized for a want.
He showed it to me, let me see, let the anticipation build.
He coated it with oil, thick, then pressed it to the entrance.
“Ready?” he said.
“Yes, please, Daddy, please, please—”
He pushed.
The stretch was so sharp I almost cried, but the bond caught it, turned it, rewrote the pain as want, and the plug slid in, and the fullness was like nothing I had ever felt. It locked in place, sealing me open.
