He’s not in a rush. Boone never is. He takes his time, mouthing at every inch of me like he’s got a goddamn checklist. Like he’s memorizing the taste of my sweat, the curve of my waist, the way I arch when he licks my skin.
By the time he gets lower, my thighs are trembling, chest heaving, body strung tight like I might snap with the next breath. His mouth hovers just above the mess between my legs and I twitch—full-body, desperate—as the heat of his breath ghosts over me.
And he hasn’t even fucking touched me yet.
“Always so impatient,” Boone says, dragging his nose along the inside of my thigh like a fucking tease. “Like you don’t already know I’d give you anything you want.”
And that’s the problem. I do know. He’d hand me the world if I asked for it. But right now, I only want his mouth. Right there.
His eyes drop, laser-focused on where I’m dripping for him. Then—slow as sin—he slides two fingers through it. I make this involuntary sound, all throat and need, and Boone just lifts his fingers, coated in me, and holds them right in front of my mouth.
“Open.”
And I do. My lips part, and he pushes those fingers in deep—past my tongue, down my throat—and watches me choke on the taste of my own cunt like it’s the best fucking view he’s ever had.
“Shit,” he growls, jaw tight. “You look so fucking perfect when you’rechoking on the taste of your own pussy.”
I moan around his fingers, eyes on his, filthy and unashamed. I suck him in deeper, tasting everything—salt, heat, me—and it’s like setting a fuse. When he finally pulls them out, dragging over my tongue, I gasp like I’ve just been yanked out of water, spit-slick and totally fucking gone.
But Boone doesn’t let me come up for air.
He kneels between my thighs like a man at prayer, but there is nothing holy about the way his mouth moves over me—slow, devoted, sinful. Each breath against my skin feels like worship, and it’s my undoing.
He licks me like he’s starving—flat tongue, hard pressure, zero mercy. One long, brutal drag that makes me see stars.
He groans into me like he’s drinking something he’ll never get enough of.
And then he finds my clit—flicks it once, twice—and sucks. Hard. His hands clamp around my thighs to keep me in place, and I thrash. I’m panting, straining, a live wire sparking in real time, and he just stays there—mouth locked on, tongue relentless, like he’s got something to prove.
“Boone—fuck—”
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, lips shiny, chin soaked.
“I want you screaming,” he says. “I want you losing your fucking voice over me.”
And then he dives back in.
Tongue driving into me, fast and filthy. My hips buck but his grip tightens, holding me there while he wrecks me. There are sounds coming out of me I’ve never made before—high, breathless, feral. It’s too much. Not enough. I’m unraveling so fast I can barely keep up.
Boone’s always been good at this—like, unfairly good—but right now? He’s on another fucking level. Like his life depends on making me come so hard I forget my own name. He’s all mouth and hands and laser-sharp focus, reading every twitch, every breath, every broken sound I make like he’s syncing to my heartbeat.
And his mouth? Lethal. Devoted. Like he’s not just trying to get meoff—he’s committing it to memory. Every flick of his tongue is precise, every pass slow at first, then suddenly fast, then slow again, dragging through the mess between my thighs like he owns it.
Then—just when I think I might survive this—he slides two fingers in, deep, and curls them.
I jolt. Not a slow burn. Not a buildup. A fucking detonation. The kind that hits behind your knees and makes your vision white out.
“Boone—” It’s a gasp. A plea. My whole body’s shaking, but he just tightens his grip on my hip.
The rope bites into my wrists, tight above my head, grounding me in the best, filthiest way.
He pulls his fingers out slow—so slow I want to scream—and shoves them right back in, hard enough to make me see stars. Then he groans, low and wrecked, his mouth brushing my thigh. “You hear that, sweetheart?” he rasps. His voice sounds like sandpaper and sex. “That’s you.”
And holy fuck, it is. It’s obscene. Wet and messy and so loud it echoes.
I should be mortified, but I want him to hear it. I want him to drown in it.
Then he’s gone—hands off, fingers out—and I whimper at the loss, but before I can even process it, his mouth is back on me. Just his mouth. No fingers, no hands, no distractions. And it’s brutal. He licks through me like he’s making up for lost time, groaning into my cunt like I taste better than anything he’s ever had.
