He still doesn’t stop.
“Interesting,” he murmurs, tendrils flicking. “You’re responsive even during refractory overlap.”
He finally pulls his fingers out, watching me clench around empty air. I sob silently at the loss, every nerve ending screaming for him to put them back.
He lifts his hand between us.
His fingers shine.
My arousal coats them, strings of it stretching as he separates them slightly. He studies it like data, like evidence—and then, without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his mouth.
And licks.
My eyes go so wide it hurts.
His pupils flare. His head tips just slightly, nostrils flaring like he’s chasing the scent up into his skull, trying to taste it with more than just his tongue. And then he licks again, like he’s savoring it—coating his taste buds in me. His eyelids flicker once. Twice.
Then his gaze drops to my dripping cunt and he speaks in a voice that’s no longer steady. “Trace dopamine, adrenaline, oxytocin. Fluid density suggests high-volume lubrication. Salinity confirms ovulatory window.” His voice dips lower. Rougher. “Fertile.”
Oh my god.
My brain shatters.
It isn’t just that he’s tasting me—it’s that he’sanalyzingme while he does it. Diagnosing me like a wet, trembling little test subject laid out under a microscope. He’s hardwired for this, hasneverseemed more alien than he does right now. His body, his senses, his instincts…they were designed to interpret a lover’s chemistry with surgical accuracy.
And mine?
Mine is apparently screamingbreed meat full fucking volume.
“I’m curious,” he says, “if this is connected to the neurological symptoms. Some kind of…hormonal surge caused by the limbic system, perhaps.”
Normally, I’d be hella turned on by the chemical analysis and theorizing, but I’m currently a twitching mess beneath him, legs still spread, chest rising in frantic little stutters.
He keeps going though—maybe out of real interest, maybe because he’s having second thoughts.
“Possibly hormonal priming,” he adds. “The repeated orgasms may be creating a feedback loop—cortisol levels low, which rules out traditional stress fatigue, but elevated oxytocin suggests strong bonding imprint. I wonder if?—”
With a growl of frustration, I suddenly sit up, yanking the panties out of my mouth.
He fixes his eyes on me, narrows them. “I thought I told you to?—”
I don’t let him finish.
I haul him in for a kiss.
…which might be a mistake, because it triggers an instant orgasm.
I moan into his mouth, wrapping my legs around him, hooking my ankles behind his back. I cling to him and grind my pussy against his hard cock through his briefs, letting his tongue in to plunge past my lips.
Then his hands…his hands are on me.
And rather than making the orgasms more powerful, worse…it’s more like they relieve the surface area.
It becomes a full body high, unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
And now…now I’m theorizing too.
“That’s better,” I breathe into his mouth. “More touch…good. More touch is good.”
