And his tongue finds her clit.
A whimper breaks from her lips.
Kael groans at the sound like it reaches somewhere deep inside him.
His eyes close briefly, forehead pressing harder into the inside of her thigh, and Elyssara realizes with sudden, breathless clarity that this is undoing him too. Not just desire.Relief. The kind that settles into the body only when something beloved finally comes home.
She’s missed him.
Missed his touch. His presence. His reverence. His worship.His godsdamned tongue.
His tongue presses against her clit in long, flat, languid strokes, and she can’t help it—she grinds into him. She grinds low. Rolling her hips in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Her hands find the stone wall in front of her, leaning forward for more friction against her clit.
“Look at me, my love,” she says, her voice a breathy pant.
Kael’s eyes drift open. The faintest trace of black still remains in his left eye, like smoke after a snuffed flame.
He’s returning.
His mouth doesn’t stop working, licking, lapping, allowing her to ride his face. Her arousal glistens on his lips, as she looks past the swell of her breasts. The rhythm of her hips increases, but he pulls her down, locking her tight on his mouth.
A long, unbidden moan tears from her throat.
Their gazes are locked. And Kael looks at her like he’s starving. Not just for her body. Not even for pleasure.For this.
For the permission to touch without destruction following after it. For the certainty that she still wants him beneath her hands—even after everything.
His tongue slows deliberately, broad and languid, savoring instead of chasing. Like he could spend hours here if she let him. Like worship is not an act to him.It’s instinct.
“You taste so fucking good,” he pants, breathless from his ministrations. “Sink lower—I want to taste more of you.”
She sinks. Deeper and heavier. She moves her hands behind her, gripping his hips and dropping her head back and exposing her neck, opening herself completely to him.
Kael inhales sharply beneath her, fingers flexing harder against her thighs like the weight of her settling onto his mouth is something he feels all the way through his body.
His eyes never leave her. Even now. Even here. Like witnessing her matters just as much as touching her.
His tongue sweeps through her center, devouring her like a feast.
“Fuck,” she moans.
“Keep riding my mouth,” he breathes, half-plea, half-command.
And she does.
Her hips find a rhythm, rolling like waves over his tongue. The muscles of her thighs grip and tense as she moves for pleasure, and his stubble scratches the delicate skin on the inside of her thighs. The pleasure is endless, strokes of his tongue meet her in the exact, steady rhythm that she loves. They dance.Stroke. Grind. Stroke. Grind.
Lovers reading each other like notes in harmony.
Sweat glistens on her skin, auburn hair sticking to her neck as the warmth blooms through her body. Her breaths shorten, become more erratic, more audible. Pleasure builds low in her belly, setting every nerve on end.
“Gods,” she curses.
“My mouth fits so perfectly on your pussy, darling,” he praises, and the words almost bring her undone.
She moans, unrestrained.
