Chapter 36 Stormy #2
“What about my mouth?”
Then another kiss. His lips part mine, and when he nibbles at my bottom lip, I moan softly into him, my fingers digging into his waist as though he can anchor me in this moment forever.
His fingers brush the bare skin of my thigh.
He moves slowly, tentatively, like he’s asking with every inch.
The hem of my dress lifts, soft fabric brushing my skin as his hand glides upwards, and when I part my legs for him, just slightly, just enough, he looks at me with such aching desire, I almost plead.
His fingers trail lazily over the thin fabric of my underwear, the touch teasing and devastating. I’m already wet, aching, and the moment his fingertips brush against me, I feel the shift in him. His breath catches, and then he exhales, low and ragged.
“Fuck, Stormy,” he breathes, with thinly veiled control. His fingers pause, saturated now with proof of how much I need him. “You really do want this, don’t you?”
There’s no teasing in his tone now. Just awe. Just reverence.
I nod, unable to speak, my body already leaning into his touch, my breaths shallow and fast.
He slowly slides the fabric to the side, his fingers grazing against bare skin. He ghosts over my clit so sensually, my body trembles. Then, with the same hand, he presses forward, gentle but sure, and pushes two fingers inside me.
I let out a sound I couldn’t hold back if I tried, caught in raw pleasure. My head tips back, lips parted, the swing creaking beneath me as my body leans into the sensation.
Without hesitation, his free arm wraps around my waist, steadying me, holding me close as his fingers curl inside me. The strength in his grip on my waist contrasts with the tenderness of his touch, and it makes me feel safe, wanted, protected, undone.
He makes a strangled noise, and I feel the tension in him, the way his muscles tighten, the way his gaze burns into me like he’s trying to memorise every reaction.
“Jesus,” he murmurs. “You feel …”
He swallows hard, his breath warm against my cheek, searching my eyes. “I want to taste you.”
The words land like a spark in my chest. There’s something in the way he says it, like it’s not just hunger but worship. Like he’s asking for something sacred.
My breath stutters, and I feel the flush of heat spread across my skin. I don’t speak right away—I can’t, but my body answers for me, hips tilting slightly, legs parting just a little more.
His arm tightens around my waist, steadying me as the swing shifts beneath us. His fingers stay inside me, but his eyes are locked on mine, waiting, watching.
I nod, barely and he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper.
“I want to hear you say it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, as he pulls back to rest his forehead against mine.
I swallow hard, my breath catching in my throat. The words tremble on my lips, but I say them anyway, “taste me, Ford. Please,”
His throat bobs, and something shifts in his expression. Reverence, hunger, and restraint unravelling thread by thread.
“You’re going to need to hold on,” he says, wrapping my hands around the ropes of the swing.
I grip them tightly, fingers curling around the worn fibres as he leans close.
He kisses the curve of my neck first, soft and lingering, his lips brushing just beneath my ear.
Then lower, across my collarbone, each kiss desperately seductive.
His hands slide up my sides, fingertips grazing the edge of my dress.
His hands brush tenderly over the swell of my breasts through the fabric, and his mouth follows, pressing a kiss just above the neckline, where skin meets cotton.
I shiver beneath him, the swing creaking softly, my body aching for more.
Then, slowly, he lowers himself to his knees in front of me, with his gaze locked on mine for the whole time. His hands slide up my thighs, firm and sure, and he hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear, pulling them down with care.
He looks down at me then. I feel exposed and open, but not afraid, not with the way he’s looking at me, like I’m something he’s been aching for.
He parts my legs a little more, his hands tender but insistent, and leans in to kiss the inside of one thigh. Then the other. The warmth of his breath skims over my core, teasing. Making me ache for the heat of his mouth—for the moment he finally gives in.
I whimper, hips shifting, and he glances up at me with a crooked smile.
“Look at you,” he drawls, his voice slow and thick. “So beautiful like this …”
The moment his tongue touches me, my body arches instinctively, a sound escaping my throat that’s half gasp, half plea.
He swipes his tongue slowly from my entrance up to my clit, one long, deliberate stroke that makes my whole-body shudder.
His beard grazes my inner thighs, rough against soft skin, and the contrast makes me shiver.
Every stroke of his tongue feels as though it's freeing me from everything I’ve been keeping bottled up.
He doesn’t rush; he savours. His mouth moves with purpose, lips and tongue working in tandem, and when he sucks gently at my sensitive clit, I cry out, breathless and undone.
My fingers tighten around the ropes of the swing, knuckles white, legs trembling. I can feel the heat building low in my belly, curling tighter with every pass of his tongue, every worshipping kiss.
Then his hand slides up my leg again, slow and sure, and I feel his fingers press against me, slipping inside with the same tenderness and hunger. He curls them just right, and my body responds instantly, hips lifting, breath stuttering.
I’m close.
The thought pulses through me like a warning, and before I know it, the tension is too much, and I break.
The world around me blurs as pleasure crashes over me in strong, eager waves. I cry out his name as my body trembles—breath caught somewhere between a sob and a moan.
My arousal spills onto his tongue, and he makes a sound I can barely hear, low and hungry.
I’m soaked now, but he doesn’t stop.
He holds me through it, mouth and fingers moving in a perfect rhythm, like he knows exactly how to satisfy me.
When I finally come down, with my chest heaving and legs still shaking, he pulls back just enough to look up at me through wild eyes and glistening lips.
“You taste so good,” he rasps, voice hoarse.
He slides his fingers out of me, slowly through the wetness between my thighs, then he straightens, rising to stand in front of me. His eyes never leave mine as he lifts his hand, pressing two fingers gently to my lips.
“Taste how sweet you are for me, Stormy.”
I wrap my mouth around them, sucking softly, tasting myself on his skin. A hum of appreciation echoes in my throat.
“Fuck,” he groans. “That beautiful mouth of yours …”
He moves closer, his body pressing against mine, and his voice drops to a whisper.
“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined those lips wrapped around me … around my cock, your tongue tasting every inch.”
My hands reach for his belt, fingers trembling with urgency, but his shoot down, catching mine before I can undo the buckle. I feel him, hard and straining beneath his jeans, and the ache in me deepens.
“I want to taste you too, Ford,” I whisper, voice thick with need.
His grip doesn’t tighten, but it holds. Just enough to stop me.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, low and rough.
“Oh.”
The word slips out, small and uncertain. My face falls before I can stop it. Rejection blooms sharp and sudden. Did I misread him? Does he not want it, want me, despite everything he’d said?
He sees it. Of course he does. His hands release mine and rise to cradle my face, thumbs brushing the heat from my cheeks.
“Stormy,” he breathes “This was about you. Not me.”
I search his eyes, still unsure.
“But … I mean, I just thought … maybe you didn’t …”
His breath catches, and then he’s leaning in, forehead resting against mine.
“I want you to touch me,” he promises. “To taste me. But not now. There’s plenty of time for that.”
He kisses me softly. “And don’t you dare think, not for one second, that I didn’t enjoy every moment of this.”
His thumb swipes across my bottom lip, eyes dark and molten.
“You’re beautiful, Stormy. So fucking beautiful, and watching you come undone like that …”
He lets out a breathless laugh.
“Honestly? If you touched me right now …” He shakes his head, grinning. “I don’t think I’d last a second.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere soft and giddy inside me. He laughs too, forehead still pressed to mine, and for a moment we’re just tangled in the desire, affection, and joy.
His hand slides slowly up my inner thigh, fingers skimming the sensitive skin.
“Did you know you could do that?” he asks, voice low.
My brow furrows, confused, but then I feel the breeze. Cool air against damp skin. I gasp softly, cheeks flushing as the realisation crashes over me. My thighs are soaked.
Mortified, I bury my face in my hands. Embarrassment slaps me hard and fast. Did he not like it?
“I’m sorry,” I whine, voice muffled by my palms.
But he’s already pulling my hands away, laughing softly, tenderly.
“What are you apologising for?” he asks, eyes searching mine. “Stormy, that was one of the hottest things I’ve ever experienced.”
He kneels again, and this time he peels off his shirt, slowly.
The fabric lifts to reveal his sculpted abs, each muscle carved and glistening in the sunlight.
His arms are strong, with veins tracing paths over sun-kissed skin.
Dark tattoos snake up from his wrist, curling over his forearm, shoulder, and up the base of his neck like a whole story waiting to be read.
He leans in, eyes locked on mine and licks a slow line up my inner thigh.
I laugh and push his head away playfully. He laughs, and grabs his shirt, using it to gently clean the wetness from my skin.
His touch is adoring, almost worshipful, and the intimacy of it makes my chest ache in the best way. His shirt is soft against my skin, his touch even softer.
“Nobody’s ever taken care of me like this before,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can second guess them. His hand stills, and I place mine over his.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, voice quiet and unsure.
He looks up at me, eyes warm with affection.
“I want to.”
The way he says it—simple and certain—makes my throat tighten. It’s not about obligation. It’s about choice, it’s about care.
I watch him as he finishes up, leaning in to press a kiss to the inside of my knee, lingering just long enough to make my breath catch and then straightening down my dress.
But then he sighs, reluctantly straightening up. “
Okay,” he says, dragging the word out like it pains him. “I really do have to go now.”
I smile. The image of him feeding Sunshine tugs at something tender inside me.
He cups my cheek one last time.
“I’m looking forward to tonight.”
“Me too,” I say, fingers brushing his wrist.
He grins, eyes flashing as he leans in, kissing me sweetly, and then finally pulls back with an effort to leave.
I watch him walk away, shirt in hand, bare back golden in the fading light, muscles shifting with every step. He turns once, all smiles, and my heart stumbles.
I’m still staring when I realise something.
“Ford,” I call out. “You forgot your hat!”
He glances back, eyes catching mine.
“You keep it,” he says, voice teasing. “It looks good on you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me flushed, still catching my breath, and wearing his cap like I’m his, even if he didn’t say it.