Emma:
He doesn’t rush.
That’s the worst part—the best part—the part that makes my whole body feel like it’s balancing on a knife’s edge.
His mouth is on me, slow at first, just a warm press of lips that makes every muscle in me lock tight. Then he drags his tongue in a slow, devastating stroke that steals the air from my lungs.
I bite down on a sound I didn’t mean to make, fighting it, clamping my jaw shut—
“Let me hear you,” he murmurs against me. “I want every sound.”
God.God.
The permission hits harder than the touch.
My breath breaks into a trembling moan, and he groans in satisfaction—low and dark and hungry—like he’s wanted that from me all damn night.
His hands tighten on my hips, holding me perfectly still while his mouth works me with maddening precision, every slow strok
