She lay there for a moment, her chest still rising and falling from the first one, her hair damp against the armrest, her skin carrying that post-release warmth that sat differently from the fever flush that had been there when he arrived.
Then she moved.
She pushed herself up from the cushion slowly, her arms finding their strength, and turned toward him where he was kneeling beside the couch.
She came up onto her knees on the cushion, facing him, the blanket falling away from her completely, and she was right there, her chest bare and flushed, her hair loose around her shoulders, her amber eyes carrying something in them that had nothing of the sick whisper from the floor in it.
She put her hands on him.
Both of them, flat against his chest first, feeling the fabric of his jacket, and then she moved them slowly, running her palms across his chest and down his sides, feeling the shape of him through the jacket with the unhurried attention of someone who was not going anywhere and had decided to take her time about all of it.
He said nothing.
He let her.
She found the lapels of the jacket and pushed it back off his shoulders, working it down his arms, and he let her take it, the jacket dropping somewhere behind him.
Her hands came back immediately, finding the hem of his shirt this time, sliding underneath it, her palms pressing flat against his stomach and moving upward across his abs, her fingers spreading across the muscle there, feeling each defined line beneath her hands.
She looked at what her hands were doing.
Then she looked at his face.
She pulled the shirt upward and he raised his arms and she pulled it over his head and dropped it and then she was looking at him properly, her hands going back to his chest and his stomach immediately, running across everything with that same deliberate patience, her thumbs tracing the lines of him, her fingers pressing into the muscle and releasing.
’She is taking this seriously,’ he thought, watching her face as she moved her hands across him, at the specific focus in her expression. ’This is not hurried. She is actually doing this.’
She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his chest.
Her lips found the center of it first and then moved sideways, pressing along the muscle there, her tongue coming out briefly, her hands still moving across his stomach and his sides.
She worked across his chest slowly, her mouth making its way from one side to the other, her lips pressing and releasing, her tongue making small appearances.
He put one hand loosely on her back and said nothing.
She kissed her way down from his chest to his stomach, her mouth finding each line of his abs and pressing there, her hands going ahead of her mouth, her palms spreading flat across him as she moved lower, feeling what was coming before her lips arrived at it.
She reached his waistband.
She looked up at him from there, her chin at the level of his stomach, her eyes finding his.
Then she reached up and pushed him.
Both hands flat on his chest, a firm push, and he went back against the couch cushions and she came with him, following the push, his legs going wide naturally as he landed, and she was between them immediately, her knees on the floor, the couch at her back, him in front of her.
She looked at the front of his trousers.
She reached up and found the waistband and pulled. He lifted his hips and she worked them down, the trousers coming off, her hands finding each ankle as she worked them over his feet. She set them aside somewhere.
His boxers next.
She took her time with those too, her fingers at the waistband, pulling them down slowly and deliberately, looking at what she was uncovering as she did it, her expression carrying the unhurried attention of someone seeing something they were not planning to look away from.
She pulled them free and dropped them.
She looked at him.
He was already hard, fully, the size of him present and specific and sitting right there at her eye level from where she was kneeling between his legs.
She looked at it.
Then at his face.
Then back at it.
She wrapped one hand around the base of him slowly, her fingers not quite meeting, the full circumference of him wider than a single hand comfortably accommodated, and she held him like that for a moment without moving, just holding, feeling the warmth of him in her palm.
He exhaled.
She ran her hand slowly from the base to the tip, just once, taking the full length of the stroke, her fingers pressing slightly as they moved, and then back down again.
Then she did it again.
Slow. Unhurried. Her hand moving from base to tip and back, her eyes on what her hand was doing, her other hand finding his thigh and resting there.
’She is genuinely taking her time,’ he thought, feeling her hand move. ’This is not the Kelly who follows his pace. This is Kelly deciding on her own pace and holding it.’
She did it several more times, her hand moving steadily, learning the weight of him in her palm, her grip adjusting on each stroke, slightly different pressure at different points, finding what made the muscle in his jaw tighten and coming back to those specific places.
Then she lowered her head.
She pressed her lips to the tip of him first. Not taking him in yet, just her lips there, warm and still, a single deliberate point of contact that she held for a moment before releasing.
She did it again.
Her lips pressing and releasing at the tip, soft and specific, several times, feeling him respond to each one with a small involuntary movement that she registered and filed.
Then her tongue came out.
She ran it slowly from the base all the way to the tip, one long flat stroke that covered the full length of the underside of him, and she felt every part of him respond to it as she went.
He breathed out through his nose.
She did it again.
Then again.
Her tongue working from base to tip repeatedly, each stroke long and deliberate, her hand still wrapped around the base, her other hand still on his thigh, her eyes occasionally moving up to his face to read what was landing where.
Then she took him in her mouth.
Just the tip first, her lips sealing around him, her tongue pressing flat against the underside, and she held there without moving, just the warmth of her mouth around him and the pressure of her tongue, letting him feel it fully before she did anything else with it.
He put his hand on the back of her head.
She felt it and went deeper.
Her head moved forward slowly, taking more of him, her lips sliding down the length of him in one steady motion until she had taken as much as she was going to take on that first stroke, and then she pulled back just as slowly, her lips dragging from root to tip, and the sound that came from her was low and warm and present throughout the entire movement.
"Mm," she said.
She went back down.
This time slightly deeper, slightly more committed, her hand at the base working in coordination with her mouth, the two of them moving together without any gap between them, her head rising and falling in the rhythm she had chosen and was not deviating from.
’She is better at this than ever,’ he thought, his hand pressing slightly in her hair, feeling every movement of her head beneath it. ’She is genuinely better. This is not the same as before. There is something more considered about it. Like she has thought about what she was doing and arrived at it with a plan.’
She kept going.
Her mouth finding a pace that was steady and sustained rather than building frantically toward anything, the long deliberate strokes continuing, her tongue moving differently on each upstroke, finding specific things to do at specific points that made his hand tighten in her hair each time she arrived at them.
She felt the hand tighten and stayed on whatever she had just done.
Her pace picked up by a degree. Not dramatically.
Just enough that the rhythm had more weight behind each stroke, her head moving with more intention, her sounds coming more continuously now, low and warm and filling the apartment around them.
"Mm," she said. "Mm."
He pressed his hand down slightly.
She went deeper.
The sound that came from her on the deeper stroke was different from the previous ones, fuller, more present, arriving from somewhere lower in her chest, and she held there for a moment before pulling back to take a breath and going back down immediately.
His jaw was tight.
His hand in her hair tightened further.
She felt it and did not slow down, her pace staying exactly where it was, her hand at the base working in perfect coordination, her mouth taking the full committed strokes that she had built toward over the last several minutes.
"Mm," she said. Muffled and warm and entirely deliberate.
He felt it building.
Not rushing toward him but building steadily, the way things built when they had been given proper time and proper attention, arriving with the certainty of something that had been earned rather than forced.
His hand pressed.
She went as deep as she could go and held there, her throat working around him, her hand at the base pressed flat against him, everything she had committed to the depth of the position.
He came.
His hand tightened in her hair and stayed, a low rough sound leaving him through his jaw, everything releasing in long continuous pulses while she held exactly where she was, her throat working, swallowing steadily, taking all of it without moving until every wave had passed and there was nothing left.
She pulled back slowly.
She looked up at him from where she was kneeling, her lips swollen, her hair slightly undone from his hand, her eyes carrying the specific expression of someone who had done something they had decided to do and had done it the way they intended to.
He looked at her.
’That,’ he thought, ’was something else entirely.’
Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!
Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter