Chapter 3 — The Permission #3
I forced myself to relax back into the pillows, my hands fisting the sheets.
He didn’t just lick. He feasted. He used his tongue to part my folds, to circle my clit, to delve deep inside me.
He used his lips to suck, his teeth to provide the faintest, most exquisite edge of pain.
He was relentless, rhythmic, utterly focused on the feedback of my body.
My moans became continuous, a ragged soundtrack to his work.
I was panting, my head thrashing side to side, my heels digging into the mattress.
“Leo… oh god, Leo…”
He hummed against me, the sound traveling straight to my core.
He slid two fingers inside me, curling them, finding a spot that made my vision blur.
His tongue stayed on my clit, flicking, pressing, circling.
The dual sensation was too much. The coil, which had never fully unwound, snapped back tight with vicious speed.
“I’m coming!” I cried out, the warning torn from me.
He didn’t let up. He drove me into the climax, his fingers pumping, his mouth working. It crashed over me, a deep, rolling wave that convulsed my entire body. I screamed, the sound muffled by my own arm as I bit into it. Pleasure radiated out from my center in violent, shuddering pulses.
Only when the last tremor subsided did he ease his touch. He kissed my inner thigh, then crawled back up my body. He was fully hard again, his cock pressing insistently against my hip. He was glistening with my wetness on his chin.
He kissed me, deep and slow, letting me taste myself on his tongue. It was primitive, claiming, and it sent a fresh thrill through my spent body.
“Again,” I breathed against his lips, my voice shattered.
He didn’t need telling twice. He positioned himself at my entrance.
I was swollen, hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive.
He pushed in slowly, giving me every inch with a controlled, excruciating slowness.
I wrapped my legs around him, locking my ankles at the small of his back, pulling him deeper.
This time, the rhythm was different. It was slow, deep, almost worshipful.
He held himself above me, his eyes never leaving mine.
Each stroke was a full, deliberate glide, hitting a place deep inside me that made my breath catch.
There were no performative noises, no dramatic shifts.
It was just the slick, wet sound of our joining, our ragged breathing, and the distant hum of the city.
He leaned down, his chest brushing my nipples, and kissed me. It was a kiss of shared breath, of profound connection. I ran my hands over the powerful muscles of his back, feeling them contract and release with every thrust.
“This is mine,” he murmured against my lips, his hips driving deep. “This, right now. You. This is for us.”
And it was. Ben was a ghost on the other side of a door. This room, this bed, this man moving inside me with such devastating focus—it belonged to us alone. The realization was a liberation. I met his next thrust with a roll of my hips, taking him even deeper. A low groan rumbled in his chest.
My body, already humming from one climax, began to climb again. This ascent was slower, richer, built from the deep friction of his strokes and the intimacy of his locked gaze. I felt my inner muscles begin to flutter around him.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice thick. “Come for me again. Let go.”
His hand slid between our bodies, his thumb finding my clit.
He pressed in time with his thrusts. The added pressure was the final key.
My second orgasm built and broke like a tide, a warm, spreading wave of pleasure that melted my bones.
I clung to him, my cries smothered against his shoulder, my body milking his cock in rhythmic pulses.
It triggered his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and shuddered, a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat as he spilled inside me.
He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in the crook of my neck.
We lay there, tangled and spent, the only sound our gradually slowing heartbeats.
Time lost meaning. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 11:23. We had been in this room, in this bed, for hours. The world outside had ceased to exist.
Eventually, Leo shifted his weight off me, but he pulled me with him, tucking me against his side, my head on his chest. His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder.
“He’s still out there,” I said softly, the reality seeping back in like cold water.
“I know.”
“What happens when we open that door?”
Leo was silent for a long moment. “That’s up to you,” he said finally. “And him.”
It was a non-answer, but the only honest one. Leo was a catalyst, not the architect. He had broken the frame. What happened to the picture inside was our problem.
A profound exhaustion settled over me, emotional and physical. My eyelids grew heavy. The warmth of Leo’s body, the steady rhythm of his breathing, lulled me. I fought it, but the pull was too strong. I drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep, still nestled against him.