18. Two A.M. #3
“Then you’re being dramatic for no reason.
” He pressed his tongue against her again, and whatever retort she’d been forming dissolved.
His mouth worked her with a patience that was almost cruel — slow circles, then faster, then slow again, his rhythm shifting before she could anticipate it.
One hand held her thigh open, fingers digging into her skin, while the other stayed pressed lightly over her mouth.She was trembling visibly now, her body wound tight, every nerve focused on the point where his tongue met her.
He took her clit between his lips and sucked, gently at first, then harder, and she whimpered against his hand, her fingers clutching the edge of the counter.He slid a finger inside her, then two, curling them upward as his tongue continued its steady assault.
She felt the pressure building — deep, relentless, spreading through her lower belly and down her thighs.
Her breathing came in short, sharp bursts against his palm, and she could feel herself clenching around his fingers.
“Chris — I’m —”He didn’t speed up. He kept the same rhythm, the same pressure, like he knew exactly where she was and had no intention of rushing it.
His fingers curled again, pressing against the spot inside her that made her vision blur, and his tongue circled her clit in tight, wet strokes.The orgasm hit her like a wave — starting deep and rolling outward, her whole body clenching and shuddering.
She cried out against his hand, her back arching, legs squeezing around his head.
He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, tongue slowing as the aftershocks rippled through her, fingers easing their pace but still inside her, still feeling the way she pulsed around them.When she finally went limp, he pulled back.
His lips were wet, his jaw glistening, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, watching her with those tired, dark eyes.She was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, her skin flushed and damp.
She looked at him — at the scars on his forearms, the exhaustion still carved into his face, the way he was looking at her like she was the only clear thing in a world that had gone blurry.
“Get up here,” she said.He didn’t need to be told twice.
He unbuckled his jeans, pushed them down, and stepped out of them.
He was hard, thick, and she reached for him, wrapping her hand around him, feeling the weight and heat of him in her palm.
He inhaled sharply at her touch, his hips jerking forward.She guided him to her entrance, and he gripped her hips, pulling her to the edge of the counter.
He paused, the tip of him pressing against her, and looked at her one more time — that look, the one that asked permission even when he already had it.She nodded.He pushed into her in one smooth, deep thrust, and they both groaned.
She was still sensitive from the orgasm, and the stretch of him inside her sent a jolt through her that was almost too much.
She grabbed his shoulders, nails digging in, and he held still for a moment, letting her adjust.“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.
“Move. Please.”He pulled back and thrust into her again, setting a rhythm that was deep and steady.
The counter was cold against her bare skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of him inside her, and the contrast made everything feel more intense.
Each thrust pressed him against the spot his fingers had found earlier, and she could feel another wave building already — slower this time, deeper, like a tide pulling instead of a wave crashing.His hands gripped her waist, pulling her into each thrust, and she wrapped her legs around him again, locking her ankles, pulling him deeper.
He groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against her skin.
“Camila —”