Then his tongue flicked out, slow and exploratory, tasting her like it was his first sip of wine after a century of thirst. She gasped, hips twitching, hands fisting in the cushions. But he held her still, broad hands anchoring her in place while his mouth worked in devastating, patient circles.
“Oh my god,” she choked.
“Wrong name,” he murmured against her, the vibrations sparking up her spine.
He sucked her clit softly, then firmer, then just let his tongue swirl in lazy patterns that had her toes curling and her vision going white around the edges. He was relentless in a way that felt like worship and ruin at once, like this wasn’t about getting her off, it was about undoing her completely.
And he was fucking good at it.
He alternated pressure and rhythm like a musician changingkeys, knowing exactly when to back off and when to push her closer to the edge. Every time she thought she might fall over it, he slowed, teasing, drawing it out until she was grinding into his face, shameless and hungry.
His hands spread her wider, thumbs stroking the insides of her thighs while he buried his tongue deeper, lapping, savoring, like her taste was a spell he needed to complete.
She sobbed out his name, his real name, didn’t even realize she knew it, or could speak Latin until it tore out of her throat like a prayer and a curse all at once.
“Ashar, fuck, don’t stop,”
He didn’t. He locked his arms under her thighs, pulling her closer, deeper onto his mouth, and flicked his tongue just so, right there, and she shattered.
Not like a pretty moan and a flush of heat, like screaming into a void and finding it echoed with pleasure.
She arched off the couch, body writhing, eyes rolled back, hips locked in a quake that wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t end, wouldn’t let go. Her whole body convulsed around his mouth like he was dragging the orgasm out in greedy, endless waves.
And he stayed there, mouth wet and hungry, drinking her down like he’d been starving for centuries.
When she finally collapsed, it felt like her bones had liquefied. Blair blinked up at the ceiling like it might explain what the fuck just happened.
Her body was wrecked. Her brain: goo. But her hand drifted to her side table, not for her phone, but for the notebook tucked beneath a tarot deck and a half-used tube of lipstick.
She flipped it open to a blank page. Pen in hand, fingers trembling.
This time last year, she would’ve texted her ex.
A shaky “u up?” or a half-hopeful “miss you” like bleeding on purpose.
Now she wrote spells instead. Wishes disguised as protection.
That could be growth, or maybe it was glitter-coated grief.
Either way, she didn’t reach for her phone.
Ashar kissed her inner thigh, slowly, smugly, and gratefully.
Then leaned back on his heels, face glistening, eyes glowing, every inch of him looking like the goddamn embodiment of sin and satisfaction.
She tried to speak, failed, and then tried again.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Ashar licked his lips and said softly, “Still think I’m a dream?”
“You’ve been starving for so long, Blair. Let someone feed you for once.”
Blair flinched. Not because it was wrong, but because it was true. She couldn’t remember the last time someone gave without expecting her to shrink in return.
She didn’t answer; her brain was too busy rebooting, and her thighs were still trembling.
And he was looking at her like he was about to do it again.
