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Let her.

My lips part her slowly, finding her clit with careful precision—like I’m memorizing this touch to sustain me later. She gasps, sharp and alive, and the sound goes straight through me—down my spine, into my blood, into every ruined place the Gospel ever taught to kneel for pain instead of pleasure.

Her grip tightens at my roots.

Hard.

A command without words.

I follow her lead, my tongue tracing circles that grow firmer, more insistent. My hands grip her hips, fingers pressing into her flesh, feeling her respond to each stroke.

The way her breath catches. The way her hips move before she lets herself admit she wants more. The way her thighs tense around me when I find the rhythm she likes and stay there, steady and relentless, until her body starts telling the truth for her.

There is nothing passive about Selah Crow.

Nothing obedient.

She doesn’t lie still and let me worship her. She takes it. Demands it. Turns my mouth into something useful and holy and hers.

She rocks against my mouth, her breath hitching as I fuck her with my tongue, building heat insistently. Her wetness spreads across my chin, my hands lock around her hips, holding her steady while she moves against me, shameless now, breath breaking, fingers pulling hard enough to sting.

Good.

I want the sting.

I want the ache of her keeping me where she wants me.

I want the proof that I am not taking a damn thing from her.

She is giving.

And I am on my knees accepting every bit of it.

The sounds between us turn obscene in the open dark—her ragged breaths, the wet heat of my mouth, the fire snapping low beside us like even the mountain knows better than to interrupt. She says my name once, broken and furious, like she hates how much she means it.

It nearly ruins me.

Then she pulls harder.

Uses me harder.

Claims me with every breath she loses.

And God help me, that knowledge hits deeper than lust ever could.

Because this isn’t possession.

It’s permission with teeth.

Her body tightens suddenly, fiercely, and I feel the moment take her before the sound leaves her mouth. She comes apart above me like survival finally found somewhere safe to break, thighs locking around me, fingers buried in my hair, voice tearing loose into the dark.

I hold her through it.

Steady.

Unflinching.

Mouth still on her, hands firm at her hips, taking nothing she doesn’t give and giving her nowhere to fall except on me, the dog worshiping at her shrine.