Simon laughs, low and warm, like I’ve said something naïve. His hand lifts, brushing hair away from my neck, and his thumb grazes the sore bruises he left there.
His voice drops. “I don’t think we’re hiding it very well, sweetheart.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my protest dies when his hand slides lower, skimming down my collarbone, over my chest, down my stomach. His eyes never leave mine.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of my hip.
I swallow hard. “Simon?—”
“One more,” he interrupts, his voice dark with hunger. “One more orgasm before I go.”
My pulse stutters. I should say no. I should tell him he’s already kept me wrung out, exhausted, and sore. But the way his hand presses me gently back into the mattress, the command threaded through his voice—I let him.
I sink beneath him, shivering at the weight of his body above mine.
“Good girl,” he whispers, kissing me hard.
His mouth trails down my throat, hot and wet, until he’s tugging the blanket lower, exposing my chest. His tongue circles my nipple, his thumb rolling the other, and my back arches helplessly.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he growls, moving lower, kissing every inch of skin until he’s between my thighs again. His breath fans hot across me, and I can’t stop the needy whimper that escapes.
He looks up once, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, eyes dark and intent. “Relax.”
And then he’s there, mouth on me, tongue stroking in deep, hungry sweeps. My hands fist in the sheets, my hips lifting into his face without thought. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle graze of his teeth makes my legs shake.
“Simon—fuck…”
He hums against me, pleased, relentless. I’m already raw, already sensitive, but he builds me up with ruthless patience, his fingers stroking, curling, filling me until I’m keening his name into the night.
When the climax crashes, I bite down on my lip so hard it almost bleeds. My vision whites out, my whole body clenching as wave after wave rips through me.
Simon doesn’t stop until I’m trembling, wrung dry, pleading with shaky breaths. Only then does he lift his head, mouth slick, eyes dark and satisfied.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, kissing my thigh before moving up to hover over me.
I can’t move, can barely breathe. But I can still feel his weight pressing me into the mattress, the heat of him surrounding me.
His lips brush mine, gentle now, coaxing me back from the edge.
“Better?” he asks softly.
I nod, unable to form words.
His smile is slow, proud. He adjusts my panties back into place, tugging the blanket over me. Then he cups my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. “I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetheart.”
I nod again, my throat thick. He kisses me once more, softer this time, and when he pulls back, I can still taste him on my lips.
Then I watch him—the man who’s been inside me more times than I can count over the past week, who’s just wrunganother orgasm out of me with nothing but patience and control—put himself back together piece by piece.
Straightening his shirt. Adjusting his glasses. Slipping his watch on like he hasn’t just undone me completely.
When he finally heads for the door, he looks back once. His voice is rough but certain. “Thank you for dinner, sweetheart. I’ll lock up.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me in the dark with my racing heart and the scent of him still clinging to my skin.
Pancake yowls like he hasn’t eaten in years, pawing at my ankle as I set his bowl down. He dives in as soon as the kibble clinks against porcelain, tail twitching like I’ve been starving him on purpose.
I lean against the counter, phone tucked between my ear and shoulder, listening to the faint crackle of my mom’s voice through the overseas line.
