There’s none of that furor now.
He’s almost lazy as he licks me. This is like the oral sex version of brunch, like he plans to linger and enjoy himself, and I don’t know how to feel about that. I’ve had a variety of partners who had a variety of feelings about oral sex, ranging from a box to check off to get to the good stuff to some kind of strange competition to prove how many times they can make me come. I don’t know that I’ve ever been with someone who seems to love it for its own sake, for the pleasure it brings them.
I never guessed how much hotter that would make the whole experience.
Eros lingers over every inch of my pussy, seeming to savor the exploration. It’s a slow tease, an idle strumming of pleasure that increases with every lick and then grows again each time he makes that sexy little growling noise against me, his hands tightening on my thighs as if he’s beside himself with need. He finally, finally, works his way up to my clit and rubs the flat of his tongue over me in little strokes.
I cry out, my back bowing. “More. Please, Eros. More.”
His rough laugh nearly makes me come on the spot. I might be able to go toe-to-toe with this man in every other arena, but in the bedroom, I’m hopelessly outmatched. Because it doesn’t feel like a match as his tongue plays over my clit. It just feels like pleasure, like two people pursuing the same goal with the same intensity. How am I supposed to remember that he’s the enemy when it’s everything I can do not to grab hold and ride his face until I come all over him?
He’s not the enemy.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes Eros even more dangerous. I can’t bring myself to regret saying yes, though. Maybe I will later, but right now this feels too good to stop.
“Stop holding back.”
I open my eyes, not sure when I closed them, and lift my head to look down my body at him. “What?”
Eros nods at where my hands are fisting the sheets, and a strange little smile pulls at his lips. “You know you want them in my hair.”
I do. I really, really do. Which is precisely why I shouldn’t, why I should try to keep some part of me withdrawn.
This isn’t a battle I’m going to win, though. It’s not even one I want to win. I give myself over to him with a cry, dropping back to the mattress and digging my hands into his curls. This man’s hair should be illegal. It’s so incredibly soft and just long enough to get a wicked grip. My legs fall wider without my having any intention of doing it, and the low sound Eros makes is nearly as much a reward as his tongue sliding into me.
Is this really happening?
Am I, in the soft light of the morning, naked in bed with Eros Ambrosia and rubbing my pussy against his mouth as he tongues me?
There’s no room for doubt, for recrimination. Later, I’ll worry about how I’ve changed things between us, smudged lines that desperately needed to remain clear. Right now, I’m dancing on the edge, my body strummed tight with the orgasm bearing down on me. So close…
Eros shifts and then he’s pressing his fingers into me. The shock of the penetration, combined with the way he’s working my clit, hurtles me over the edge. I cry out, my grip spasming in his hair, but the pleasure doesn’t stop. It keeps going, his mouth and hands building up another wave even before the first dissipates.
Oh gods.
“Eros.” I tug on his hair, but I might as well try to tug the moon from the sky. “Eros, wait.”
He barely lifts his mouth enough to say “One more.”
“I can’t.” I shouldn’t.
He slows but doesn’t remove his fingers. The entire bottom half of his face is wet from my desire, and as I watch, he licks his lips. “That was barely a taste. I’m not done.” He pumps slowly into me, penetrating me, possessing me. “Let me have my fill, Psyche. You can go back to hating me later.”
I don’t hate you. Even if I should. “Okay,” I whisper. I don’t sound like myself. I don’t feel like myself. Surely someone else has taken possession of my body—a wanton, reckless creature who cares only for pleasure and the consequences be damned.
Even if I’m the one who will ultimately pay the price.
I lose track of time. Of my fears. Of everything but the two of us in this bed, Eros going down on me like he never needs to breathe, drawing orgasm after orgasm from me.
Eventually he slows. Or I do. I’m not sure. Only that I’m shaking so hard, it’s as if I’ve just enduring one of Callisto’s boot-camp workouts. Eros isn’t all that composed, either. He kisses his way up my body and then his mouth is on mine, ramping me up despite the intense wave of exhaustion the last orgasm brought.