He uncoils from the corridor. The movement is slow and deliberate. He comes around to face me, and I sit up on the bedroll and the corridor is narrow and he fills it.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, lifting it over my head, his fingers trailing down my ribs as the fabric clears my arms. Then his hands go to my waist, easing the pants down, his palms sliding along my hips, my thighs, and the compound transfers from his scales into my skin at every point of contact.
I sit on the bedroll, bare, my back against the cool stone wall. He put me here. Not with force. With intent.
He lowers himself. The humanoid half of his body descends, his arms bracing against the corridor walls. His face comes level with my stomach. Then lower. His breath against my skin. The teal follows the veins on my inner thighs, tracing paths his hands have never taken. His body has been writing on mine for days.
“Open for me,” he says.
I obey the heat in his voice.
I am exposed and unhidden. He takes me in with the same focused attention he brings to everything.
His tongue flicks out. Long. The fork tastes the air between us first. The tips separate, sampling. Then the tongue extends further and the tip touches the inside of my thigh.
The contact is wet and precise. The compound transfers immediately. I feel the heat bloom where his tongue touches, spreading outward from the point of contact. He traces up my inner thigh in a slow line. The fork drags two parallel tracks of heat along my skin.
He reaches the crease of my thigh and pauses. His breath is hot against me. The exhale hits me, humid, and then the tongue presses flat against me.
Both tips at once. One on either side. The fork opens across me, covering, pressing, and the compound soaks through the thinnest skin on my body and it hits something deep and my hips lift off the bedroll.
He holds me down. One hand on my hip. His palm spanning from bone to bone. He holds me in place as his tongue moves.
The tips separate. One circles while the other presses, and the two rhythms layer over each other until I stop trying to track which is doing what. My body is tracking it for me. My body has opinions I have not been consulted about and every single one of them is yes.
I grip the edge of the bedroll. Cool stone at my shoulders. His hot mouth between my legs. Nothing else.
“Vadh.”
His hand tightens on my hip. He heard me. He does not stop.
The tongue pushes inside me. Longer than I expected. The fork opens and both tips press against a spot that turns my vision white and my hands to fists. I stop breathing for a count I do not measure.
“There,” I say. “There.”
He holds. Both tips against the spot. The pressure is precise, and the heat from the compound at that depth is reaching places nothing has reached before. My hands are fisted in the bedroll and they are not holding.
He pulls his tongue back. The tips trace the outside of me again. One fast, one slow. Offset. The rhythm he has been using since the pool, the rhythm his body knows. The compound is layered now, inside and out, the heat from the internal contact meeting the current from the external contact and the two waves crossing and building.
My legs tremble. His grip on my hip firms. His other hand comes to my other hip. Both hands holding me open and still while his tongue works.
He takes me apart.
It starts low. Deeper than the pool. Deeper than his hands. It rolls up my back and takes my teeth, my fingernails, the roots of my hair. Everything he has been putting into my body for weeks answers at once.
I come.
Loud.
His tongue flat against me, his hands pinning my hips, my head knocking back against the stone. His name. Pieces of it. Nothing. I don’t care who hears.
He holds the contact through the aftershocks. His tongue still held against me, lighter, gentler, not moving, just holding while my body pulses against him.
When the last wave passes, he lifts his head.
His eyes are different. The focused attention of before has shifted into something else. He is not reading me anymore. He is looking at me the way you look at something you were afraid to hope for.
He settles back. His coils arrange behind him in the narrow corridor. His face has the expression of a male who has been carrying a weight his whole life and has just felt it shift.
