He started at my feet — my toes, actually, which I had not expected and which made me gasp — and worked upward with his mouth, unhurried and thorough, the way he did everything in this room. The inside of my ankle. The back of my knee. The inside of my thigh, where he slowed deliberately and stayed longer than anywhere else, his breath warm against my skin, his mouth moving in slow, open-mouthed passes that stopped just short of where I needed him and then retreated, again and again, until I was pulling against the cuffs in earnest and making sounds I could not have described if someone had asked me to.
He kissed my stomach. Across my ribs. He drew each of my n*****s into his mouth in turn, slowly, with the particular focused attention of a man who has decided this is where he is going to
