“I’m not?—”
“You are. I can see it.” Her thighs are loose, her body not quite committing. “Lock your knees. Tense up your thighs. And hold your breath.” I don’t change the rhythm. “Your body knows what to do but your brain’s getting in the way. So give your body something to focus on that isn’t thinking.”
She hesitates, then does it—locks her knees, tenses her thighs.
“Good. Now stop thinking.”
“I can’t just stop?—”
“Yes you can. You have to stop talking to hold your breath so focus only on my hand. On nothing else.” I increase the pressure slightly. “Stop performing. Stop analyzing. Just feel it.”
She’s getting close—I can feel it in how she’s tightening around my fingers, how her breath explodes out before she inhale on a gasp and holds it.
But that last bit of tension is still there.
I move between her thighs before she can overthink it, replacing my hand with my mouth.
Same rhythm. Same spot. Same pressure she showed me.
But now with the wet heat of my tongue, the slight scrape of stubble on her inner thighs, the anchor of my hand holding her hips.
I don’t change anything. Just maintain exactly what she showed me, keeping her legs tense the way I told her to, not letting her squirm away from the sensation.
I feel the moment it happens. The exact second her brain finally shuts off and her body takes over.
Her whole body goes rigid for a heartbeat before the shaking starts—violent tremors that rack through her entire frame.
She’s clenching so hard around my fingers I can barelymove them, her thighs locked around my head, hands pulling my hair hard enough that my eyes water.
And she keeps coming. Waves of it rolling through her, each one making her shake harder, making her cry out again. I can feel it everywhere—in how her muscles spasm, how she’s soaking my fingers, how she can’t seem to stop making these broken, desperate sounds.
I don’t stop, working her through every aftershock until she’s sobbing and pushing at my head because it’s too much.
When I finally pull back, she’s wrecked. Completely undone. Tears streaming down her face, chest heaving, whole body still trembling.
“That was—” She stops, can’t finish the sentence. “I can’t even?—”
“I know.”
I’m so hard it’s bordering on painful. Have been for what feels like hours. Days, maybe. My jeans are too tight, every shift of position makes it worse, and watching her fall apart like that didn’t help.
“I can’t feel my legs,” she says faintly.
“That’s probably normal.”
“Is it though? Because I literally cannot feel anything below my waist.”
Satisfaction floods through me. “Give it a minute.”
She turns her head to look at me. “That was—I don’t have words for what that was.”
“Good.” I’m already moving, reaching for my nightstand. For the box of condoms that’s been sitting there since I moved in, never needed until now. “Because now it’s my turn.”
I get the drawer open. Fingers on the box?—
Her phone rings.
Loud and shrill from across the room where it fell with her jeans.
