Eventually, I pause. Lean against the sink. Breathe through the sensory overload. Then pour myself a glass of water and down it to reset. I'm surprised again—even Maine well water has a bit of flavor.
"Are you sure you don't want anything else?" Sage calls from behind me, her voice teasing. She's leaning on the counter, ankles crossed, arms relaxed, glowing in that effortless way that only she can.
I set the glass down and turn to her.
My gaze sweeps over her, slow and deliberate.
"There is one more thing I'd like to taste," I say.
She raises an eyebrow, then she smirks, catching on. "Really?" she murmurs, voice dipping lower.
"Really," I echo.
In a single step, I close the space between us and gently lift her onto the counter. Her breath hitches, but she doesn't stopme. Instead, her hands find my shoulders, anchoring herself as she shifts, hips lifting to help me ease her tights down and off.
The moment she's bare, I still.
Becausefuck.
The scent of her hits me like an ambush—lush, feminine, tempting. My throat tightens. Hunger, yes, but not the mindless kind. This is different.
I part her thighs with slow hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there as I look up at her. Her pulse flutters visibly in her neck. Her lips part on a breath she forgets to take.
"You're beautiful," I murmur. "And I want to devour you."
She exhales sharply, and nods, a small gesture full of trust.
I drop to my knees. She sits perched above me like a wild goddess someone left on my kitchen counter, and I'm the lucky one who gets to worship her.
I lean in to press slow, deliberate kisses to the inside of her thighs. Then I taste her.
My tongue moves over her with aching care. No rush, just focus, pressure, and precision. I let her feel every movement. Let myself feel her. The way she trembles. The way her hands curl in my hair. The way she gasps my name like it's something sacred.
There's no hunger greater than this. No discipline sweeter than surrendering to her. And no reward like the sounds of Sage falling apart beneath my mouth.
She tastes like heat and sweetness, like something primal and impossible to describe. Every stroke of my tongue draws a new sound from her—soft gasps, choked moans, that stuttered breath when I find the spot that makes her thighs tighten around my shoulders.
I'm not rushing. I want her undone slowly.
I slide one hand up her inner thigh, slow and steady, fingers tracing the sensitive skin that leads to her core. She jolts slightly at the contact, breath catching. Then she relaxes into it, headtipping back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other still tangled in my hair.
With my tongue focused on her clit, I press a finger inside her, just the tip, teasing the sensitive rim of the nerves at her entrance. She gasps aloud, raw and involuntary, and I feel her clench.
"Fuck, Asher…"
Her voice cracks, and it hits me like a pulse of heat. I slide in deeper, curling slightly, tongue still working her with a focused rhythm. I match the motion with my finger, then add another, stroking her just right, building her toward that edge with relentless precision.
She's shaking now, hips twitching forward, trying to meet me, chase it, ride it, but I keep control of the pace. Make her feel every moment of it.
"You're close," I murmur against her, voice roughened with restraint. "Let me take you there."
And then I do.
A slight shift of pressure. A deeper stroke. My mouth sealing over her again just as her body arches with a cry that echoes off the walls. She breaks apart with my name on her lips, her body trembling under my hands, around my fingers.
I hold her through it, staying there, grounded in her pleasure, letting her ride the wave until she slumps back against the cabinets, breathless, flushed, and utterly wrecked.
As I rise, I press a kiss to her inner thigh, her hipbone, then the corner of her mouth.
