20 Zara #3
This time, I let myself sink into it fully, lost to the feel of his mouth against mine, the way his fingers trace up my spine under my hoodie as if he’s trying to learn every vertebra by touch.
He kisses me like I’m something precious. His hands are firm but careful, checking in without words. When his fingers slip under the hem of my shirt and brush skin, he pauses, giving me a second to pull back. I answer by pressing closer.
Our clothes start to blur. Hoodies tossed off, tee shoved up, his shirt hitting the side of the fort. Each layer that falls away feels less like undressing and more like shedding some of the weight I’ve been carrying.
Everywhere he touches, he lingers—thumb sweeping along the side of my breast through lace before he slips under, palm warm and reverent. His mouth trails a path along my jaw, down my throat, pausing at my collarbone as if he’s saying hello to every inch he marks with a kiss.
He doesn’t rush any of it. He takes his time tracing along my ribs, my waist, my hips like he’s learning me all over again in this softer light.
I get my own hands in the mix, grazing my fingers over the lines of muscle along his stomach, the warm stretch of skin at his sides.
His breath stutters when I brush my nails lightly around his ribs, and I file that away for later, because yes!
At some point, we end up beneath the blankets completely, the fort shrinking down to our bodies and the faint glow of the string lights filtering through the fabric.
It feels secret and sacred, our own little pocket dimension.
I end up on my back with him propped above me, elbow braced, his other hand cradling my cheek.
Our foreheads press together, breaths mingling.
“You sure?” he asks one more time, voice rough around the edges, his thumb sweeping back and forth at my jaw as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I cup his face, dragging my fingers through the hair at his nape. “One hundred percent,” I whisper, voice tender and soft but confident in my words. “I want you. All of you.”
He closes his eyes briefly, like that hits somewhere deep, then nods once, leaning in to kiss my nose, my cheeks, the corners of my mouth before finally kissing me full-on again.
Everything after that unfolds in slow, tangled waves. He touches me like he’s praying. There’s no other word for it. He maps out the curve of my waist, the dip of my stomach, the softness of my thighs with a kind of reverent focus that leaves me shaky.
When he slides a hand between us, he does it slowly, as if he’s asking permission with every inch he crosses.
His fingers skim along my thigh first, then higher, pausing when my breath catches, when my body betrays how ready I am for him.
He glances up, eyes dark and searching, waiting for any sign I might pull away.
I don’t. My hips tip toward his touch instead, needy, and something soft breaks across his face at the sight of it.
“Okay,” he murmurs, barely louder than my breathing.
His fingers brush against my pussy, finding how wet I already am for him, and his breath shudders out through his nose like the sensation hit him too.
He moves carefully, spreading the warmth there, learning how I react to the lightest pressure, to the slow drag of his fingers, to the way my body opens when he takes his time.
When he finally slides his index inside me, he does it slowly, watching my mouth part, my lashes flutter, the way my hand tightens in the blankets. His thumb settles at my clit, not moving yet, just resting there, letting me adjust to the intimacy of it.
“Tell me,” he whispers, forehead pressing to my shoulder. “You’re okay?”
I nod, breathless. “Don’t stop.”
That’s all he needs.
His thumb begins to move in slow, controlled circles, applying enough pressure to make my hips stutter, to steal the air from my lungs.
He listens to me the way someone listens to a heartbeat, adjusting when I tense, slowing when I gasp, learning the rhythm my body wants instead of forcing one on me.
When he adds another finger, he does it gently, curling them just right, drawing a sound out of me that I don’t recognize as my own. My back arches, my free hand clutching at his shoulder, nails biting into his muscle as the pleasure builds, steady and overwhelming.
“Cass,” I breathe, my voice breaking on his name.
He answers by pressing a kiss to the hollow of my throat, lips warm. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my skin. “I’m right here.”
He doesn’t rush me, staying exactly where I need him, fingers moving with patient precision, thumb never leaving that perfect spot until my entire body tightens around the sensation.
The release hits me in rolling waves, my back bowing, fingers digging into him hard enough to leave marks as my head tips back and my breath fractures.
He stays with me through it all, holding me steady while I come apart, whispering soft, broken praises against my skin until the tremors fade and my breathing evens out again. Only then does he pull his hand away, slow and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment.
I blink up at him, dazed, still floating, and he looks just as wrecked. Pupils blown, chest rising and falling too fast. The sight of it sends a fresh wave of heat low in my belly.
My turn.
I slide my hand down his chest, feeling the heat of him, the way his muscles tense beneath my touch. He inhales sharply when I drag my nails lightly over his stomach, teasing.
“Zae,” he warns softly, though there’s no real bite in it.
I smile and lean forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then lower, following the line of his throat. My hand continues downward, finding him hard and waiting beneath his jeans, and his head drops forward until his forehead rests against my shoulder.
“Yeah?” I murmur, unbuttoning his jeans.
His eyes are glued to me and the way I sink my head lower. “What are you doing?”
“Returning the favor,” I answer plainly, smirking when I unzip his jeans and pull his hard shaft out from the slit in his boxers.
“Zae, you don’t have—”
He cuts off when I run my tongue along his shaft from base to tip.
I circle my tongue around the head of his cock before I slowly open my mouth and take him in.
I suck and lick, hearing him suck in a breath as his fingers tug firmly in my hair.
I bob my head, enjoying the sounds he’s making for me.
But then he stops me, pulling me up and off.
“Zae, stop.” He shakes his head. “Another day, okay? Today is about you.”
My eyes soften as I wipe my mouth with my wrist. “Fine. I won’t argue.”
He pulls my face closer and kisses me so tenderly I feel like a flower petal. There’s a brief, clumsy moment where we fumble with his jeans together, breathless laughter spilling between kisses when his foot catches and the whole fort shifts dangerously.
“If this collapses,” I whisper, biting my lip as I tug fabric free, “I’m blaming you.”
“Worth it,” he mutters, mouth crashing into mine again.
Once he’s free, he pauses just for a second, giving me the same care he gave me earlier. He presses his forehead to mine, one hand bracketing my hip, the other tracing circles on my neck as he braces himself on his forearm by my head.
“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Please.”