His hands slid down my stomach, fingers flexing at my hips—too tight for a moment, possessive—then easing, like he was choosing control over instinct. He kissed his way lower, mouth hot, unhurried, leaving heat in his wake.
He tugged the sweatpants down slowly, inch by inch, and when the red lace underneath was revealed, his jaw tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
I was trembling now. From nerves. From anticipation. From the fact that no one had ever looked at me like this.
He kissed the inside of my thigh. Then the other. His hands spread my legs, gentle but decisive, thumbs pressing into my skin like he needed to anchor himself.
When his mouth pressed against me through the fabric, I gasped and instinctively tried to close my legs. He stopped me with a firm grip, fingers digging in—then immediately softened, rubbing slow, grounding circles with his thumbs.
“Easy,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
The sensation alone was dizzying—his warmth, the pressure, the awareness that he was right where no one had ever been.
He took his time, dragging his tongue over the delicate fabric, precise and unhurried, and I arched upward before I could stop myself. My body felt like it was tipping toward him, like gravity had shifted.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband and slid the underwear down, his knuckles grazing sensitive skin on the way. The cool air hit me—and then his mouth replaced it.
I cried out.
He opened me with his tongue, broad and wet, tracing me slowly, learning me. He teased—flicking, circling—then pulled back just enough to make me ache before returning with more pressure. Every nerve lit up.
My hands fisted the sheets. I couldn’t stop moving. Every touch felt amplified, overwhelming, like my body was waking up to something it had been starving for.
He sucked gently, then harder, lips sealing, tongue working me with intent. When I gasped, he adjusted instantly—reading me, responding—fingers tightening on my thighs to keep me open as his mouth took me apart.
And then he grew hungrier.
He gripped my thighs harder, possessively, pulling me closer as his mouth attacked me with raw, filthy intent. His tongue slid inside me, slow and deep, then withdrew only to circle and flick with maddening accuracy. He moaned against me—like he fucking loved it—and the vibrations hit me everywhere.
“Maksym,” I whimpered, voice breaking.
His hands slid under my ass, lifting me, angling me exactly how he wanted. He didn’t give me a second to think. Just licked me open, sucked hard, then did it again and again, relentless and obscene.
The pressure spiraled fast, too fast. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. My legs shook violently as the heat burst through me—hot, punishing, all-consuming.
My thighs clamped around his head, instinctive and uncontrollable, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he groaned like he liked it, like being trapped there, devouring me, was exactly where he wanted to be. I tried to push him away, to breathe, to survive it—but his hands held me firm, mouth merciless, tongue dragging me straight into oblivion.
I shattered with a scream, coming so hard I saw white.
He didn’t stop until I went limp.
Then he kissed the inside of my thigh. Once. Twice. A third time.
I lay there gasping, ruined, tears slicking my lashes.
He lifted himself over me again, kissed me slowly, deeply, until I tasted myself on his tongue. My body sparked back to life—arousal reigniting like a match to gasoline.
“I wanted to go slow,” he said, kissing me again, “but one taste of you and I lost my fucking mind. Are you okay?”
I nodded, dazed, still trying to catch my breath. But I felt him then—hard and thick through the towel that was still wrapped around his waist. Fuck. How had he tied it so well? My hand slid between us, fingers tracing the outline, frustrated by the barrier. I needed it off. Now.
His jaw clenched. He hissed.
“Look at me,” he said, cupping my cheek. “I need to know this is what you want.”
I met his gaze, pulse thrumming everywhere. “I’m not a porcelain doll, Maksym. Come on. Fuck me already.”
