Chapter 1: Morning Worship
Sunlight cut across the pillows, a blade of gold finding the dip of her spine. Marcus watched the light trace the curve of her hip, the slow, steady rise and fall of her ribs beneath thin cotton. The room hummed, quiet and warm, smelling of her vanilla lotion and last night’s incense—something darker underneath, something just them.
He shifted closer, the sheets whispering. His lips found the nape of her neck, just a brush. Then her shoulder. A trail of soft, patient kisses down the arch of her back, over the swell of her ass, along the tender back of her thigh. She sighed, a sleepy, mumbled sound, and turned onto her back. Her honey-blonde hair fanned across the pillow, sharp green eyes still closed, a smile playing on her lips.
“Stalking me in my sleep again?” Her voice was morning-rough, a low thrill in his chest.
“Worshipping,” he corrected, his mouth hovering over the flat plane of her belly. His broad hands slid beneath her, urging her thighs apart. She let them fall open with a languid grace, a silent permission that made his blood thrum.
He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, feeling the faint tremor there. He breathed her in, the intimate spice of her sleep-warm skin. His gaze traveled up, taking in the sight of her stiffening against her stomach, flushed and full. She called it her clit. A bratty, perfect reclamation that never failed to send a wave of possessive adoration through him. He nuzzled the thatch of blonde curls at its base, then finally, finally, took the head into his mouth.
She gasped. Her hips lifted off the mattress.
He suckled gently, his tongue circling the sensitive ridge. One of his hands came up to cradle her balls, weighing their heavy warmth, his thumb stroking the soft skin behind them. He loved this, all of it, every part of her. The proof of her, the truth of her, the utterly confident architecture of her pleasure.
“Eager,” she breathed, her fingers threading into his hair, not pushing, just holding. “Didn’t even say good morning.”
He pulled off with a soft, wet sound. “Good morning.” He dipped his head again, licking a slow stripe from root to tip. Her thighs tightened around his ears. “Now I’m saying it properly.”
He moved lower, his kisses descending. Past her balls, to the tight, furled pucker she’d named her pussy for him alone. He pressed his tongue flat against it, and her whole body jolted.
“Marcus—”
He held her hips down, firm but gentle. “Shh. I’m talking now.” He circled the tense ring of muscle, licking and suckling until it softened, until she was making a low, continuous sound in her throat, her heels digging into the small of his back. The room filled with the scent of her, the sound of his mouth on her, the distant city traffic a world away.
He lost himself in the act of it, in the taste and the feel and the way her control unspooled. This was his language. His devotion. Every gasp was a psalm.
Her brattiness returned in breathless fragments. “You’re… really… committed to this… lecture.”
He slid a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle, and her taunt dissolved into a sharp cry. He added his tongue again, working in tandem, slow and deep. “You act up,” he murmured against her, the vibration making her shake, “because you know I love proving you wrong.”
“Proving what?” It was a challenge, but thin, cracking.
“That you’re the most loved thing on this earth.” He pushed his finger deeper, curling it, finding the spot that made her back arch clean off the bed. “That every part of you is perfect. That I’ll spend forever right here if you let me.”
Her moan was long, shattering. Her hands fisted in the sheets. “Close… I’m so close, please—”
He didn’t let up. He drank her in, the salt and the silk, the little choked sounds she made. He felt the orgasm gather in her, a taut wire humming. When it broke, it was a silent, breathless explosion for a second before the sound followed—a raw, beautiful cry torn from her chest as her hips stuttered against his mouth, her body surrendering completely.
He gentled her through it, his touches softening to kisses, to nuzzles against her trembling thighs. He crawled back up her body, wiping his mouth on his wrist, and gathered her against him. She was pliant, boneless, her face pressed into the crook of his neck.
“Asshole,” she mumbled, without any heat at all.
“Your asshole.” He kissed her damp temple.
They lay there for long minutes, tangled in the gold-lit sheets. The digital clock on the nightstand blinked to 9:47. The regular world waited.
“I have that client consult at eleven,” she finally said, her voice husky. “The bride who wants ‘ethereal but like, with edge.’”
He chuckled, his chest rumbling against her. “You’ll have her looking like a rock star goddess. You always do.”
She tilted her head up, her green eyes clear and bright. “You taste like me.”
“I do.” He smiled. “Best part of my morning.”
She swatted his arm, but she was smiling too, that smug, beautiful smile. The breeze from the window lifted the hair off her forehead. Downstairs, the coffee maker he’d set on a timer began its low, gurgling promise. The day was starting, but for now, the sun held them, and the scent of her was still on his tongue, and the thrum of her pleasure still echoed in the quiet room. It was enough. It was everything.