Chapter 14: Desperate for Release
The dawn was a pale grey smudge behind the curtains, but I’d been awake for what felt like hours, chased from sleep by a relentless, throbbing restlessness. It was a deep, physical ache, a hunger that had nothing to do with food. It lived low in my belly, a hot coil of need that tightened with every slight shift of my hips against the sheets. The baby moved, a slow, rolling turn that somehow amplified the sensation, a reminder of the primal, humming life inside me that seemed to demand its own recognition.
My hand slipped under the waistband of my soft cotton shorts. My fingers found my clit, already swollen and impossibly sensitive. A soft gasp escaped me. I circled the slick nub, but my own touch was frustrating, a feeble echo of what I craved. It was like trying to quench a wildfire with a teaspoon. I needed weight, pressure, a mouth, his mouth—a consummation that would shatter this unbearable tension.
The shower in the ensuite cut off. The silence that followed was louder. I heard the shuffle of his feet on the mat, the slide of the glass door. My heart hammered against my ribs. I let my hand fall away, my skin on fire.
When he emerged, a white towel slung low on his hips, his hair dark and dripping, the sight of him was a physical blow. Water beaded on the plains of his chest, tracked through the dusting of hair that led downward. He was all defined muscle and tired eyes, the early light carving shadows under his cheekbones. He’d been up late with those blueprints; I could see the residue of concentration in the set of his shoulders.
He saw me watching. His gaze traveled from my face, flushed and wanting, down the line of my body beneath the thin blanket, to the obvious, shameless spread of my legs.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I said. My voice was rough, stripped bare.
He stopped, towel in hand. “What’s wrong?”
“I need your mouth on me. Right now.” There was no room for poetry, for seduction. Only the raw, undignified truth.
His eyes darkened. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He was already half-hard, the towel tenting. “The doctor said to be cautious. The last time, you had those cramps—”
“I don’t care what the doctor said.” I cut him off, the words sharp with desperation. I hooked my thumbs into the elastic of my shorts and panties and pushed them down over my hips, kicking them off my ankles. The cool air hit my wet skin. I let my knees fall wider apart, showing him everything. “Look at me. I need you.”
A low, visceral groan tore from his throat. His resolve, his careful control, it visibly crumbled, shattering under the weight of a more ancient imperative. The towel hit the floor.
He didn’t speak again. He crossed the room in two strides and climbed onto the bed, his body a warm, solid block of heat over me. He didn’t settle between my legs; he descended. His hands pushed my thighs further apart, his grip firm, almost rough. He looked at the slick evidence glistening on my inner lips, and his breath hitched.
Then he dove.
There was no teasing lick, no gentle exploration. His mouth locked onto me, his tongue a firm, broad stroke from my entrance straight up to my clit. He licked into me like a man starving, sucking my wetness, tasting me with a deep, savoring groan that vibrated through my very core.
“Fuck,” he growled, his voice muffled against my flesh. His beard scraped the tender skin of my inner thighs, a delicious abrasion. “You’re soaked. You taste fucking incredible.”
He fastened his mouth on my clit and sucked, hard. The world white noise and nerve endings. My back arched off the bed, a broken cry ripped from my throat. One of his hands left my thigh and slid under my ass, lifting me, tilting my pelvis to give him better access. He owned it, he owned me, and the sheer vulnerability of it—spread open, utterly consumed—was what finally broke the dam of my anxiety. This wasn’t about protecting a vessel. This was about claiming the woman inside it.
His tongue worked me with a ruthless, focused rhythm. He’d lap at my entrance, gathering my juices, then swirl them around my throbbing clit before sucking it back into the hot cavern of his mouth. He used the flat of his tongue, the pointed tip, the relentless pressure. He read the jerks of my hips, the choked-off pleas, and he gave me exactly what I didn’t know I needed—more.
“Yes, right there, oh god, right there,” I chanted, my fingers tangling in his damp hair, not guiding, just holding on. I was fracturing, coming apart under the relentless pull of his mouth. The orgasm built not as a wave but as a sudden, terrifying precipice. I hovered, shaking, on the edge.
“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice a raw scrape. He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them up, and his mouth redoubled its efforts.
I shattered. The climax tore through me with violent, breathtaking force. My vision speckled. I screamed, my body clamping down on his fingers, convulsing around them as pleasure, hot and electrical, wracked me from the inside out. He didn’t stop. He drank my release, licking and sucking me through the brutal, exquisite aftershocks until I was sobbing, pushing weakly at his head, oversensitive and raw.
“Please,” I whimpered, my body spent but the deeper ache unfulfilled. “I need you inside me. Please, Cheol. I need to feel you.”
He pulled back, his mouth glistening, his eyes black with desire. He shook his head, panting. “I can’t. Not like that. It’s too deep, I don’t want to hurt—”
“Then just… be here.” I was pleading, tears of frustration mingling with the sweat on my temples.
His hand wrapped around his own cock, thick and flushed, veins standing in relief. He stroked himself slowly as he watched me, watched the mess he’d made of me. His thumb smeared the head through my wetness, mixing his pre-come with mine.
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised again, his voice ragged.
He lowered his head once more, but this time his tongue was softer, apologetic, laving the oversensitive bud as his fingers, still inside me, began a slow, deep rhythm. His other hand worked his own length in time. The duality of it—the tender invasion below, the rough friction above—drew a second climax from me, different from the first. This one was a deep, resonating pulse that started in my core and radiated outward, a full-body thrum that left me boneless and gasping.
Seeing me come again, feeling me clamp around his fingers, was his undoing. A harsh groan was ripped from his chest. He shoved his hips forward, and hot stripes of his release spilled across my inner thigh and lower belly, marking me. His whole body shuddered, his forehead dropping to rest against my pubic bone as he spent himself.
Time bled away. The room gradually came back into focus. The grey dawn had turned to muted gold. We were a tangled, breathless, damp mess. He reached for a discarded shirt from the floor and gently wiped his spend from my skin, then cleaned between my legs with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the frenzy of minutes before. He disposed of the cloth and then gathered me to him, my back to his front, his palm splayed possessively over the curve of my stomach.
We lay in silence, the only sound our slowing breaths. The restless beast inside me was quiet, finally appeased. The anxiety, for now, was a distant murmur.
“I’m scared of how much I needed that,” I whispered into the quiet.
His arms tightened around me. His lips pressed to the juncture of my shoulder and neck. “I’m scared of how much I needed to give it to you.” He paused. “The lake house plans… the deck railings. You were right. The original specification wouldn’t have handled the weight of winter snow. I found the supplier you mentioned. They can fabricate the thicker gauge.”
Tears, absurd and sudden, pricked my eyes. This was his language. Not just I love you, but I studied your work. I learned your mind. I will build the world you designed.
I placed my hand over his, lacing our fingers together against the firm swell of our child.
Outside, a bird began its morning song. The world was waking up. But here, in our cocoon of sweat and salt and settled need, we were already awake, already building.
But here, in our cocoon of sweat and salt and settled need, we were already awake, already building. His confession about the railings, a secret offered in the dark, felt more intimate than anything our bodies had just done. It was the blueprint of his love, practical and bearing weight.
"I know you're building my world," I whispered, turning in his arms to face him. The morning light caught the stubble along his jaw, the tired, proud lines around his eyes. "And I feel so… adored. So fucking loved by you."
I traced the shell of his ear, then let my hand drift down, over the hard plane of his chest, through the damp trail of hair. My fingers closed around him, finding him already thickening again, responsive as ever to my touch. He inhaled sharply.
"My mouth," I said, my voice low and utterly sure. "I really need your dick in my mouth. As thanks. For all of it."
A fractured sound escaped him, part laugh, part groan. "You don't have to thank me like that."
"But I want to." I was already moving, pushing back the blankets, urging him onto his back. "I want to taste us. I want to make you lose that control you cling to. Let me."
I didn't wait for permission. I slid down the bed, the linen cool against my naked skin, and settled between his legs. He was fully hard now, impressive and veined, the head flushed a deep violet. My own wetness, mixed with his release, still shone on his skin. I bent my head and licked a slow, clean stripe up the underside, from root to tip, tasting the sharp, musky salt of our mingled essences.
"Christ," he hissed, his hands fisting in the sheets.
I took him into my mouth slowly, letting my tongue swirl around the broad head before easing down further. I focused on the sensation—the smooth, hot weight on my tongue, the faint pulse against my lips. I used my hand to stroke what I couldn't take, twisting my wrist on the upstroke the way he liked. I looked up at him through my lashes. His head was thrown back, tendons standing out in his neck, his gaze locked on the ceiling as if begging for strength.
It wasn't gentle worship. It was claiming. I sucked him deep, hollowing my cheeks, feeling him nudge the back of my throat. I pulled off with a wet pop. "You taste like me," I breathed, grinning fiercely before taking him deep again.
His control shattered. One hand came down to cradle my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, not forcing, but guiding, feeling the motion of my mouth on him. "Yeah, just like that. Fuck, your mouth is perfect." His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk. "So good. So deep."
I reveled in the filth, in the raw feedback. The slick sounds, his ragged breaths, the way his thighs tensed under my palms. I worked him with a hungry, relentless rhythm, wanting to devour this proof of his desire for me. He was mumbling curses, praises, a litany of obscenities that spurred me on.
"I'm close, baby. I'm gonna come," he warned, his voice strained.
I took him deeper, accepting him, my throat relaxing. That was all it took. With a guttural roar, he spilled hot and bitter onto my tongue. I swallowed until he was spent, until he was gently pulling me off, his body sheened with a fresh sweat.
I crawled back up his body and collapsed beside him, licking my lips. He pulled me to him, his heart pounding against my ear. He was speechless, utterly spent.