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There’s no stopping this. Our bodies are calling to one another, and the only thing we can do is surrender to it.

Like a rubber band, the tension snaps, his hands ripping my tee over my head, knuckles skimming my bare skin. His mouth crashes back into mine, our teeth knocking and tongues tangling.

I fumble with his belt, my hands still a little cold as I wrench open the buckle and fight my way through to his zipper. My fingers dip into the waistband of his boxers, but before I can get anywhere, he collects my wrists in one of his big hands.

“Rules, Bellamy,” he teases, that phrase alone making my breath ratchet up and wetness leak from my cock. You come first. That’s always been his rule, and I don’t hate it. Not one little bit.

He backs me over to the cluttered tabletop that is my altar, until my ass connects with the dark wood. Like a submissive animal, I bare my neck, daring him to ravish me, to rip me open. I tangle my fingers into his hair as he finds a home under my jaw, making love to my neck with his mouth before slowly descending my body.

He flicks his tongue over one sensitive nipple before moving onto the next, while his hands work open the buttons on the sides of my overalls. He inches them down my thighs torturously, the wet fabric catching on my boxers and dragging them with it.

“No lace today, Babybell?” he asks, leaning in to press a kiss to my hip bone. I can’t help bucking into it, my cock throbbing with the need to be touched, precum dribbling as it twitches.

“Please,” I beg, for nothing, for everything. Still, he doesn’t touch me where I want him to. His breath ghosts across my tip, an exquisite torture in itself.

Dipping down, he cradles each of my ankles in his hands, helping me step out of the remnants of my clothes and peeling my sodden socks off. They get tossed aside, along with my self-restraint.

I tighten my grip in his hair, wrenching his head back. His eyes flash with hungry delight at my roughness, mouth canting up into a wicked smirk. Oh, he likes that. I tug on it again, just to make sure. His lips part on a prayer, a low groan slipping out of his mouth.

“Tell me what you need,” he encourages, yet somehow still manages to sound like he’s begging. It empowers me to ask for what I want. What I need.

“Eat the witch,” I demand, my entrance already pulsing with anticipation.

Sunday’s only response is to lift a tattooed finger in the air, making a twirling motion. I turn, bracing my hands on my altar and bending over it. Water falls from my damp hair, dripping onto the wood.

Searing-hot kisses press into my back as he grabs a handful of my ass, kneading it, hooking his thumbs into my flesh. I turn my head, looking at him just as he slides his hands down my thighs, sinking to his knees and licking a stripe all the way down my crease. I stifle my moan in the flesh of my shoulder, staring into those storm-dark eyes as I do.

The first press of his tongue against my rim has my eyes falling shut as I dip my head, panting through the waves of pleasure he’s pulling from me. He laves at my hole, alternating between flattening his tongue and licking in slow strokes until I loosen. Precum trickles out my tip as he spears that slick muscle inside of me.

“F-fuck, I forgot how good you are at that,” I whine, my fingernails biting into the wood as I try to stave off my rapidly approaching orgasm. It feels incredible to be worshipped like this.

“Happy to remind you, Babybell,” he says huskily, then blows, the cooling sensation igniting my spit-moistened flesh.

“Oh god,” I whimper. “Please.”

Sunday sinks his teeth gently into a cheek before returning to his onslaught, his finger playing with the sensitive skin of my perineum.

I widen my legs, asking with my body. He listens, pressing his finger to my rim. I’m so wet and soft, there’s barely any resistance when he slips in to the first knuckle.

White-hot bliss shoots down my spine, and I know I’m not going to last much longer. I’m desperate to come, but I don’t want this to end. I’m in that state of delirium where I’m at the edge but can’t let myself tip over, even though my legs are shaking with the effort of holding it in.

Sunday pushes all the way in and starts fucking me with his finger, dipping his tongue in alongside as he caresses my thigh with his other hand.

“Come on baby, give it to me,” he groans, his breath fluttering over my skin. He continues licking as he drives another finger into me, twisting just the way he knows I need.

I see stars when he hits my prostate, the pleasure ripping through me, arcing up my back and spreading across my shoulders like flaming wings.

“Fuck…fuck,” I pant as he rubs that spot until my fingers are gouging the wood beneath my hands. My balls draw up, and I try to hold on but I just can’t, not when he’s feasting on me like he’s making up for lost time. “Shit, c-coming,” I gasp, spilling all over my altar.

He stands abruptly, gripping my neck and capturing my mouth so he can swallow every sound I make. His tongue slides against mine, and I don’t even care where it’s just been, not when his fingers are still lodged inside of me, wringing more pleasure from me.

The feel of his damp combat pants against my leg reminds me that he’s still clothed, and that’s just not okay.

I shift, clenching around nothing as Sunday removes his fingers from me, my legs trembling with the aftershocks of my orgasm. He dips when I reach for his pants, grabbing my thighs and setting me carefully on my altar.

He makes quick work of his jeans, standing in just his tight-as-sin boxers.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he says. The words themselves would normally be anxiety-inducing, but the way he’s biting his lip is distracting enough. “I’m…uh, pierced.”