His hand settles over the fullness of my breast. “Here.”
Then lower, over the curve of my stomach. “And here.”
He bends and presses a kiss there.
“Dane.”
He looks up at me. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Something in my chest tightens. “I know.”
He always does.
He moves down the bed, his mouth trailing kisses over the tight skin of my abdomen, then lower. My head falls back against the pillow, a soft sound slipping out of me.
We might’ve been apart for six months, but his mouth hasn’t forgotten a thing.
He doesn’t rush it. He never does. There’s intent in the way he takes his time—slow at first, his tongue dragging a long, deliberate path through my slit that makes my breath catch.
“Ohh.”
He does it again. Same slow stroke, then something more precise and sharper—sending heat straight up my spine.
My fingers find his hair, holding on. He settles in, focused, no distraction, no urgency—just his mouth moving against me in steady, deliberate patterns, building exactly what he knows how to build.
“Dane.” Barely a whisper.
He hums, and the vibration pulls a reaction straight out of me. His hands slide under my thighs, adjusting my position, angling me exactly where he wants. Then he settles into a rhythm, and the warmth starts to build—slow at first, then stronger, more insistent.
“Tongue-fuck me.”
He does, sliding his stiffened tongue in and out of my slit with a steady rhythm that makes my breathing turn ragged, each breath coming a little quicker than the last.
My fingers tighten in his hair, my heel pressing into his back. He reads it, all of it, and gives me more—subtle shifts and deeper pressure—until the sound that leaves me isn’t controlled anymore.
“Ohh—”
It builds, climbing fast, right there?—
“Dane—”
I grip the pillow above my head and let it take me. When it breaks, it rolls through me in a long, heavy wave, pulling something between a gasp and a moan from my throat. I feel his breath against me as he keeps going, his tongue moving in and out, not letting me come down.
“Ohh—oh God—Dane?—”
My thighs tighten around his shoulders, my back arching as much as my body will allow. My fingers twist in his hair, holding him there while I shudder through it.
He doesn’t rush me out of it. He drags it out—every last pulse—until I’m trembling, oversensitive, barely holding together.
“Mmh… mmh.”
When it finally eases, I pull him up by his hair and kiss him, tasting myself on his mouth.
He comes up beside me, and I turn toward him, our faces close, both of us still catching our breath. He watches me for a moment, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Hi.”
He brushes a piece of hair back from my face. “Hi.”
