I felt intensely vulnerable—physically and emotionally naked. My hands sought purchase on the slick tile.
“Hold me tight,” he instructed, guiding my hands to his hair. “You’ll need the stability.”
I threaded my fingers through his damp hair as his tongue made first contact—a long stroke from my entrance to my clit. The sensation sent a jolt through my body. My fingers tightened in his hair.
“Fuck,” I cursed, head falling back.
The world narrowed to his mouth, creating patterns of pleasure. His technique was devastatingly efficient—firm strokes alternating with focused attention on my clit. He didn’t build gradually; he read my body and adjusted ruthlessly. When my breath hitched, he repeated the motion until my thighs trembled. He swirled his tongue against my sensitive bundle of nerves, then flickered right against the tip, until I was seeing stars in my vision. I could barely handle it—it was as if dozens of different sensations hit me all at once, with no intention of fading.
“No one’s touched you like this,” he murmured, eyes meeting mine with unsettling intensity. “Only me. No one knows what your body needs the way I do.”
There was something possessive and desperate in his claim—like a man who’d never owned anything discovering something precious. It should have frightened me. Instead, it made me feel powerful.
“Look at me while I make you come with my tongue,” he demanded, before sucking my clit between his lips, the suction tearing a cry from my throat. I struggled to keep my eyesopen, let alone focus on him, but somehow, I gathered the strength to find his eyes.
My leg shook over his shoulder as he slid a finger inside me, curling upward to find that spot that made stars burst behind my eyelids all over again. He added a second finger, stretching me while his tongue continued its motion.
“I can’t stand much longer,” I panted, my supporting leg weakening. “Oh, God, this feels...”
“You don’t need to,” he murmured against me. “I’ve got you.”
His strong hands shifted, one arm wrapping around my thigh to support my weight. I was now practically sitting on his face, supported entirely by his strength. My world had narrowed to where his tongue met my flesh, to the fingers stretching and stroking inside me.
The dual stimulation became too much. My back arched, body tensing as orgasm approached.
“Give me this,” he urged, voice rough with need. “Let me feel you come apart.”
My orgasm crashed through with unexpected force. My body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head, fingers pulling his hair. Wave after wave washed over me, each more intense than the last. I made sounds I’d never heard from my own throat—raw cries echoing off shower walls.
Through it all, his mouth never stopped, drawing out my pleasure until I was gasping, trembling. My leg gave out, but he didn’t let me fall. His strong arms caught me, cradling me against his chest as he slid to sitting, letting me collapse against him while aftershocks pulsed through me.
“Breathe, Maeve,” he murmured against my temple, stroking my spine. “I’ve got you.”
I was still trembling when I felt his heart hammering against my cheek. The realization startled me—his pulse was racing, his breathing ragged. This controlled weapon was affected by my pleasure as though it were his own.
I raised my head to find his eyes on me, pupils blown wide, something raw in his expression.
“You’re still shaking,” he observed, concern evident. His fingertips traced a bruise with careful gentleness. “We should get you into bed. You need rest.”
“I need this more than rest,” I insisted, my voice stronger than I expected. “I need to feel alive, to feel like myself again. What Brock did to me…” I pressed my forehead against his. “He tried to hollow me out, make me a shell to be filled with their programming. I need to remember who I am.” My voice was still trembling. “Please. I need you.”
His expression darkened with hunger, but hesitation remained. “Your pulse is too elevated. Your body is still recovering.”
“I don’t need to stand for what I want to do to you,” I countered, reaching to wrap my fingers around his cock. The contact drew a harsh sound from his throat.
His hands closed over mine, stilling my movement. “Maeve.” My name sounded different—like a warning, like a prayer. “This isn’t a transaction.”
I realized he didn’t want reciprocity born from duty rather than desire.
“I want to taste you,” I told him, voice certain. “I want to make you feel what you just made me feel. Not because I owe you—because I want to. Because it arouses me.”
Something in my words reached him. The controlled mask slipped, revealing naked hunger.
We held each other’s gaze in a silent battle. Finally, he nodded. “Two minutes,” he stated. “Then you’re mine.”
He helped me position myself between his legs as he sat against the tile. The shower floor was hard beneath my knees, but I didn’t care—I wanted this, wanted to bring him pleasure as intense as what he’d given me.
His cock jutted proudly, thick and heavy, already slick with pre-cum. His hand brushed wet hair from my face with unexpected gentleness, thumb tracing a small healing cut. How many people had touched him with tenderness rather than to inflict pain?
