Page 67 of Witchy Woman

I preen under his praise, pushing my chest out and spreading my legs a little bit wider just to hear his groan.

“That’s it. Show me exactly how perfect you are.”

His fingers trail along the lacy edge of my thong, almost dipping to where I really want them but always shifting at the last second. A gentle tease that has me gasping for breath. Whining and pleading.

He shushes me kindly, finally removing the fabric and throwing it into the pile of clothes behind him.

The patience has left his eyes as he stares at the wetness dripping from me. It’s always in this moment that he loses control. When he sees what he wants and can’t keep himself from taking it.

He’s told me in post-intimate moments that I taste like melted marshmallows and brown sugar and home. That he’s addicted to the taste of me.

I squirm, lifting my foot up to push him forward. Anything to get him to move.

It’s all the invitation he needs. He dives in, tongue making quick work of lifting me so high I can barely make a sound. He’s gotten so good at this—insists on doing it every single time we fuck.

I haven’t gotten my mouth on him yet because we’re usually both so wound up after that the desire to have him inside me is too important. But not today.

No, not for his Christmas present. Tonight, I have plans for him.

He presses two fingers inside, reaching that special spot as he curves them forward making my entire back bow underneath him.

“Sometimes I think about finger-fucking you with my ring on,” he says, lifting his opposite hand and showing me his house crest. “Would you like that? Show me how much you’d like that.”

I grab his hair, pushing him back down. Under the direct flicking pressure of his tongue on my clit and his fingers inside me, my head flies back as I cum.

It takes minutes to regain my sanity. To breathe normally after the waves of satisfaction that still send little aftershocks through my body.

He sucks his fingers into his mouth, gathering every last taste of me. “God, I need to be inside you.”

I shake my head, hand coming to rest on his chest. “No. No, lie down.”

He cocks his head but does what I ask.

Slowly, I remove his clothing. I take everything until he’s as bare as I am, moonlight shining on his soft skin. I love him like this. Relaxed, responsibilities left at home. Under the moonlight and trees.

I trail my fingers along his thick, corded thighs, the hair tickling just a little. “You haven’t let me take care of you. I’d like to.”

He closes his eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath that speaks of desperation. “You’re going to kill me, woman.”

“That’s not a no, but it’s not a yes, either. May I?” I lower my head, a hairsbreadth away from the small bead of pre-cum at the very tip of his length.

“Whatever you want. I’m yours.”

“Have you thought about it? What I’d look like with my lips stretched around your cock?”

He groans again, hands fisted at his sides. “I’ve thought about you in every single way imaginable. But I know whatever I’ve imagined will never be as good as the real thing.”

I shrug. “True.”

And with that, I swallow him down to the back of my throat. I haven’t done this in a while, so I breathe and swallow through the spasms. I pull back, trailing a thick vein on the underside with my tongue.

“Fucking hell. You look so goddamn good.”

I put his hands in my hair, encourage him to get a good hold as I suckle at the mushroom head.

“Okay, okay. Fuck. Stop,” he breathes, pushing me back after maybe a couple more deep pulls.

I glance up at him, my lips brushing against the tip. “What?”