Chapter 22: Morning Devotions
The first thing she felt was not the dawn light, but the rough, hot stroke of his tongue, a slow, deliberate circuit that sent a jolt through her half-asleep body. She gasped, her back arching off the sheets, her hands flying from the pillow to find his head already between her thighs. He held her firmly in place, his morning stubble a delicious abrasion against her sensitive skin, his mouth working with a focused, unhurried precision that made her vision blur.
I pant, my fingers instinctively slipping into his thick, dark hair, gripping tightly as another wave of pleasure crashes over me.
His deep chuckle vibrates against my core, and I feel him smirk against my skin.
Cocky bastard.
"What," I manage to whisper, my voice breathless, desperate. "What are you doing?"
His answer is almost lazy, sinful, his voice drenched in amusement.
"Having breakfast."
And then, freaking hell.
The low, rough sound that escaped him wasn't a laugh this time, but something guttural and possessive, as his hands slid under my hips to tilt me up, offering me completely. "Oh," I whimper, rolling my hips against his mouth, meeting each slow, maddening stroke. Another finger pushes in, stretching me, aligning me perfectly with his tongue, which keeps flicking, teasing, tasting, sucking with a rhythm that liquefies my bones.
I swear I feel him groan, a deep vibration against my core, like he's the one drowning in pleasure. "Daniel, please," I gasp, my body shaking, the pressure inside me spiraling into something dangerously close to shattering. I need more. I need him.
He slows, and my frustration spikes; he knows exactly what he's doing. "Princess," he rasps, his voice deep and rough with desire, his tongue stroking me again, lazy and torturous. "Could you stop shaking?" He flicks my clit with the tip of his tongue, making me cry out. "I'm trying to finish my meal."
Freaking hell.
Freaking hell.
"OH," I cry, losing myself completely.
His grip tightens on my thighs, pinning me open, keeping me right where he wants me, making sure I can't run from this. From him.
"Please." I beg, my voice breaking, my body trembling on the edge of something unbearable.
His fingers slow just enough to make me whimper in frustration. The bastard wants to hear it, he wants me to say it.
"Words, Princess." His lips brush against me as he speaks, and the vibrations make me see fucking stars.
I try to move against him, to chase my release, but his grip is firm, controlling.
"I need," I pant, my voice shaking, "I need to come. Please."
Please.
And just like that, he gives it to me. A third finger joins the others, stretching me, pushing me over the edge as his tongue works me ruthlessly, his lips closing around my clit and sucking hard. My back arches so violently I think I might break, my body convulsing as my orgasm rips through me, wave after unbearable wave of pleasure that I can't even contain.
His name falls from my lips like a prayer, I cry, moan, I can't hold back. But he doesn't stop. Even as I shatter, he keeps going.
He moves slower now, dragging out every aftershock, teasing my oversensitive clit, making me tremble, making my body twitch in overstimulation. I whimper, beg, gasp for air, my fingers yanking at his hair as I try to pull him away before he destroys me completely. But he doesn't move.
He just gentles his mouth, softening to a series of barely-there kisses that feel like mercy and torture all at once. A shuddering sob escapes me, my hips still jerking helplessly against his now-still face. He finally lifts his head, his chin glistening, and studies me with a dark, satisfied focus, reading the wreckage he’s made. “There,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now you’ve had a proper wake-up.”
“Now you’ve had a proper wake-up.” His voice was a ragged whisper against her damp skin.
She felt boneless, a puddle of sensation, but her hands fisted in the sheets, her body already craving the emptiness he’d filled to be filled again. Her green eyes, dark and blurred, found his blue ones.
“I need you,” she breathed, the words shaky but clear. “Not just your mouth. You.”
A complex shift passed over his face—triumph, vulnerability, a faint trace of fear. He moved up her body, the hard heat of him pressing against her thigh. “Erica,” he said, a warning or a prayer.
She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer, anchoring him to her. “Don’t think,” she murmured, her lips finding the scar on his brow. “Just be here.”
When he entered her this time, it was a slow, deep reclamation that forced a shared gasp from them both. The fullness was a perfect, stretching ache. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming in sharp huffs.
The first thing she felt was not the dawn light, but the rough, hot stroke of his tongue, a slow, deliberate circuit that sent a jolt through her half-asleep body. She gasped, her back arching off the sheets, her hands flying from the pillow to find his head already between her thighs. He held her firmly in place, his morning stubble a delicious abrasion against her sensitive skin, his mouth working with a focused, unhurried precision that made her vision blur.I pant, my fingers instinctively slipping into his thick, dark hair, gripping tightly as another wave of pleasure crashes over me.His deep chuckle vibrates against my core, and I feel him smirk against my skin.Cocky bastard."What," I manage to whisper, my voice breathless, desperate. "What are you doing?"His answer is almost lazy, sinful, his voice drenched in amusement."Having breakfast."And then, freaking hell.The low, rough sound that escaped him wasn't a laugh this time, but something guttural and possessive, as his hands slid under my hips to tilt me up, offering me completely. "Oh," I whimper, rolling my hips against his mouth, meeting each slow, maddening stroke. Another finger pushes in, stretching me, aligning me perfectly with his tongue, which keeps flicking, teasing, tasting, sucking with a rhythm that liquefies my bones.I swear I feel him groan, a deep vibration against my core, like he's the one drowning in pleasure. "Daniel, please," I gasp, my body shaking, the pressure inside me spiraling into something dangerously close to shattering. I need more. I need him.He slows, and my frustration spikes; he knows exactly what he's doing. "Princess," he rasps, his voice deep and rough with desire, his tongue stroking me again, lazy and torturous. "Could you stop shaking?" He flicks my clit with the tip of his tongue, making me cry out. "I'm trying to finish my meal."Freaking hell.Freaking hell."OH," I cry, losing myself completely.His grip tightens on my thighs, pinning me open, keeping me right where he wants me, making sure I can't run from this. From him."Please." I beg, my voice breaking, my body trembling on the edge of something unbearable.His fingers slow just enough to make me whimper in frustration. The bastard wants to hear it, he wants me to say it."Words, Princess." His lips brush against me as he speaks, and the vibrations make me see fucking stars.I try to move against him, to chase my release, but his grip is firm, controlling."I need," I pant, my voice shaking, "I need to come. Please."Please.And just like that, he gives it to me. A third finger joins the others, stretching me, pushing me over the edge as his tongue works me ruthlessly, his lips closing around my clit and sucking hard. My back arches so violently I think I might break, my body convulsing as my orgasm rips through me, wave after unbearable wave of pleasure that I can't even contain.His name falls from my lips like a prayer, I cry, moan, I can't hold back. But he doesn't stop. Even as I shatter, he keeps going.He moves slower now, dragging out every aftershock, teasing my oversensitive clit, making me tremble, making my body twitch in overstimulation. I whimper, beg, gasp for air, my fingers yanking at his hair as I try to pull him away before he destroys me completely. But he doesn't move.He just gentles his mouth, softening to a series of barely-there kisses that feel like mercy and torture all at once. A shuddering sob escapes me, my hips still jerking helplessly against his now-still face. He finally lifts his head, his chin glistening, and studies me with a dark, satisfied focus, reading the wreckage he’s made. “There,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Now you’ve had a proper wake-up.”“Now you’ve had a proper wake-up.” His voice was a ragged whisper against her damp skin.She felt boneless, a puddle of sensation, but her hands fisted in the sheets, her body already craving the emptiness he’d filled to be filled again. Her green eyes, dark and blurred, found his blue ones.“I need you,” she breathed, the words shaky but clear. “Not just your mouth. You.”A complex shift passed over his face—triumph, vulnerability, a faint trace of fear. He moved up her body, the hard heat of him pressing against her thigh. “Erica,” he said, a warning or a prayer.She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him closer, anchoring him to her. “Don’t think,” she murmured, her lips finding the scar on his brow. “Just be here.”When he entered her this time, it was a slow, deep reclamation that forced a shared gasp from them both. The fullness was a perfect, stretching ache. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming in sharp huffs.