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Slowly, he kisses a line up my calves. My inner knee. My thigh.

Closer and closer and closer until⁠—

Fuck.

He takes a moment to taste me. Like he’s taking his time, exploring me again for his own selfish pleasure.

Then he works his way to exactly where I need him.

A soft, slow stroke.

Then a little harder.

A little faster.

Exactly how I need him.

“There,” I gasp.

He pushes my thighs into the bed with the heels of his hands and he works me just right.

“Don’t stop.” My voice is a pant. A plea. A promise I’m his.

In this moment and this moment alone, yes, but what a fucking moment.

He works me exactly the way I need him to.

Pleasure builds in my core. He winds me tighter and tighter with every flick of his soft, wet tongue.

My eyes close.

I reach for him.

He grabs my wrist and holds it in place, against the bed.

My body surrenders to his.

First, my thighs against the weight of his hands. Then my calves, my stomach, my hips and shoulders and neck.

He can do whatever the fuck he wants with me.

My other thoughts disappear as the tension builds. Every flick of his tongue pushes me closer and closer.

Until I’m wound so taut I could break.

Until I’m there, groaning his name as I come on his lips.

Bliss spills through my body, from the core all the way to my fingers and toes.

Every part of me is awake and alive and centered and free, and okay with whatever comes next.

Even if it’s oblivion.

The words fall off my tongue. “Fuck me now, Matteo.”

He releases my arm and climbs back onto the bed. “Hands over your head.”

I do as he asks.