Raven #2
His thumbs drew the softest circles on the inside of my thighs, so close to where I was aching that each breath he exhaled spilled warmth across my skin. I was shaking, but it was the good kind. The kind that came from being completely undone and utterly safe at the same time.
His hands kept moving, slow and sure, coaxing my legs open as if he were learning me by touch alone. The warmth of his palms against my thighs made my breath catch. The reverence in his touch made me feel cherished in a way I never had before.
He lowered himself carefully, settling between my legs. His shoulders nudged me wider, and I let him, not out of obligation, but out of complete trust.
The first brush of his mouth against my inner thigh stole my breath. More kisses followed. Each one closer, slower, more deliberate. The stubble on his jaw scraped my skin, making my hips twitch without permission. He made a low sound in his chest at the reaction.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice unsteady.
“Because of you.”
His hands slid up, one anchoring at my hip, the other flattening low on my stomach. And then his mouth dipped lower. The world narrowed to nothing more than us. The tenderness in every slow, careful stroke of his tongue against my most intimate parts.
I gasped his name, broken, soft, unguarded, and his answering sound vibrated through me, deep and low, like it unraveled something inside him too.
The same patience he'd shown with his hands carried through every touch—steady, attentive, and completely focused on me. When I arched into him, he didn’t hold me still. He guided me, letting me move with him, letting me take what I needed.
His hands slid higher, fingers trailing through my arousal. The touch made my breath catch, my thighs tightening around his shoulders.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and encouraging. “Just let yourself feel it.”
Before I could answer, he moved again, gentle, deliberate, opening my legs, giving me no doubt that he wanted all of me. His touch deepened as his finger eased inside me, slow and careful, giving me a chance to adjust.
His touch remained steady, patient, drawing the pleasure higher as he coaxed my body to show him what it needed. The combination of his mouth and the slow, deliberate movement of his hand pulled a small, helpless sound from my lips.
The pressure deepened when he added a second finger, while his mouth never wavered from its rhythm.
My whole body felt weightless beneath him as sensation gathered and spread.
His touch found exactly what it was looking for, and the pleasure hit so hard it left me struggling for breath, my thoughts dissolving beneath the overwhelming rush of it.
“Sam, I—” I started, unsure of how to express what I felt as waves of electricity coursed through me.
“I’ve got you.” His words brushed against my skin like a promise.
His mouth moved with purpose, teasing and coaxing, while his fingers worked magic inside me. Every flick of his tongue and thrust of his fingers pushed me closer to the edge.
“Please,” I whispered, not even sure what I was pleading for, but desperately needing more.
He looked up at me, his eyes dark with desire and something that looked dangerously close to reverence.
“Christ, Raven,” he said roughly. “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”
The tension inside me wound tighter and tighter until I wasn't sure I could bear another second of it. I clung to him, every breath unsteady, every nerve stretched thin.
“That's it, sweetheart,” he said, his voice rough. “Let go for me.”
The release hit hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. My body trembled, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation and emotion crashing through me all at once.
For a few seconds, I couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except feel.
Samuel stayed with me through it, steady and patient. His touch eased rather than demanded, drawing out the lingering aftershocks instead of chasing more.
When I finally managed to look at him, he was already watching me. The expression on his face made my chest tighten. As though seeing me trust him with this meant as much to him as the moment itself.
Only when the last tremors had faded did he press a lingering kiss against my skin before slowly making his way back up to me.
His warmth surrounded me as he settled close, one hand brushing my hair back from my face.
His gaze held mine, intense and unguarded, carrying so much affection and care that it made my chest ache.
No one had ever looked at me that way before.
Like I was something worth protecting. Something worth choosing.
The vulnerability of it stole my breath.
He shifted slightly, never taking his eyes off me, and when his attention returned to my face, the expression there nearly undid me. Like, after all these years, he was afraid to blink and lose me.
Samuel Morgan wasn’t just beautiful.
He was built in that effortless way men get from work and grit, not gym mirrors. Lean muscle. A broad chest. The kind of shoulders that made me feel safe even when the rest of the world didn't.
But it wasn’t the muscle that undid me. It was the story written across his skin.
Ink curled over one shoulder in sharp black lines. Wings, maybe, or something close to it, and I reached up, tracing the edge of the tattoo.
“You like them?” he whispered, voice rough.
“Yes,” I breathed, letting my fingers drift lower, down his chest to a small scar on his abdomen, pale and healed but still jarring. I brushed it gently, and he sucked in a tight breath.
“That one’s old,” he murmured. “Long before you.”
I didn’t look away from it. “Does it hurt?”