Chapter Text
MC and Caleb weren’t normal siblings, they were adopted, a secret nobody around them knew about. And it wouldn't have been a secret if they hadn't always pretended to be boyfriend and girlfriend during their formative school years.
At home they quietly loved to kiss each other. It had begun innocently enough, rooted in familial comfort. Caleb, possessed by an irrepressible need to coddle the little girl he adored, found himself constantly pulled toward her. At first, it started as chaste kisses on the cheeks. If they weren't made to be so kissable, then why were his lips so drawn to them? Her cheeks were soft, round, and practically made for adoration. Caleb couldn't help it, she was the cutest thing in the world to him. How could he not, her cheeks were so so kissable.
It was inevitable, that eventually he'd start kissing the corners of her lips. It was a dangerous, teasing middle ground that he navigated with a playful glint in his amethyst eyes. He would linger there for a heartbeat too long, testing the boundaries of their shared secret. The reaction was always instantaneous; the delicious, rosy blush that would warm up her cheeks would only prompt him into a playful frenzy.
He was unable to contain his excitement, his heart thumping against his broad chest as he chased the heat of her skin. He would begin planting kisses on her cheeks hastily, a barrage of soft, peppered pecks that covered every inch of her face until she’d finally break, a bright giggle bubbling up from her throat as she’d try to find leverage against his shoulders, pushing him off with her small hands insisting that he'd stop.
"Okay, okay! Gege, get off!" she’d insist that he’d stop, breathless and radiant, while Caleb only grinned down at her, already planning the next time he could catch his pipsqueak off guard.
Eventually one day his mouth slipped, it was bound to happen. Instead of a quick peck goodbye on her cheek as he left the house, he accidentally grazed her lips with his, he meant for the kiss to land on her cheek, but a slight shift in her posture caused their trajectories to align incorrectly. Since he was in a rush, he hadn't seen how flustered his sister got when it happened, he ran out the door carrying his gym bag off to play basketball with his friends.
When he returned home, the tension in the room was palpable. MC, usually so bold and assertive, spent the evening blushing and twisting strands of her dark hair around her fingers, her pulse stuttering in her throat. She tried to maintain an air of nonchalance, but the question was etched into her vibrant, nebula-colored eyes. Finally, she gathered the courage to confront him, her voice barely a whisper as she asked if the kiss had been an accident—orrrrr perhaps, something else entirely.
Caleb simply laughed it off. He reached out, ruffling her hair with a large, calloused hand, his purple and orange eyes glinting with amusement. "Knock it off, Pipsqueak," he chided, his voice deep and reassuring, though his gaze lingered on her lips a second too long. "Don't think so hard about it. You're overthinking again."
She huffed and puffed, her face heating up as she turned away in a fit of feigned indifference, deciding then and there to let the matter drop. But the seed had been planted. Shortly after, the dynamic shifted in the quiet moments of their domestic life. Naturally, whenever Caleb prepared to leave the house, the chaste cheek-kisses were replaced by quick, deliberate presses of his lips to hers. They remained brief, innocent, lovingly on the surface, but for both of them, it marked the beginning of a quiet, secret intimacy that tethered them together far more tightly than any bloodline ever could.
"This movie is so boring," she groaned, slumping dramatically against the arm of the plush sofa. The flickering television screen cast long, dancing shadows across their grandmother's living room. A historical epic droned on, filled with stoic men in clanking armor and pronouncements about honor and duty that were doing little more than lulling her towards an unwanted nap. "Caleb, gege, can we please watch literally anything else?"
Caleb, however, was thoroughly engrossed. He was leaned forward slightly, his chin resting in one of his large hands, his amethyst eyes fixed on a cavalry charge unfolding across the screen. "What's wrong with a bit of historically accurate action, huh, Pips?" he murmured, a smile playing on his lips without his gaze ever leaving the television. He found the sheer scale of the production fascinating.
"Exactly that!" she shot back, pushing herself up into a sitting position and fixing him with a petulant pout. "It's all so… bloody. I want to watch something with some real drama. Something like reality TV—now that's some historically accurate action."
A deep, rumbling laugh escaped Caleb’s chest, the sound a familiar comfort in the quiet house. He brushed off her request with a lazy shake of his head, his focus returning to the climactic battle. "Nice try, Pipsqueak. Not happening."
"Hmph!" With a huff of theatrical indignation, she crossed her arms tightly over her chest. "Fine. If you're not going to change the program, I'm just going to go to bed." She stared at the side of his head, willing him to look at her, to give in.
"Be my guest," he said easily, finally tearing his eyes from the screen just long enough to offer her a dismissive wave to the stairs that led to the bedrooms. "Don't let me keep you."
She stayed put, her bluff called. A different kind of energy began to bubble up inside her, a familiar boldness that only surfaced when she was with him. "You're really not going to stop me?" she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with a challenge he couldn't possibly mistake.
That got his attention. Caleb finally turned his head, his full focus landing on her for the first time since the movie began. She had moved, crawling from her end of the worn sofa to kneel on the cushions directly in front of him. With her knees tucked under her, she leaned forward, her arms braced on his thighs and her posture deliberately pushing her breasts together, creating a stark and unavoidable V in the neckline of her thin tanktop. Her own nebula-colored eyes, a defiant swirl of pink and sage and periwinkle, stared directly into his.
"Uhh…" The single syllable came out as a hitched breath. His mind, moments ago filled with battle strategies and ancient history, went completely blank. He couldn't help it; his gaze dropped from her intense eyes to the glaring, deliberate cleavage she was presenting to him, his mouth suddenly dry.
In that fleeting moment of his stunned paralysis, she saw her opening. She leaned forward the last few inches and planted a soft, swift kiss directly on his mouth. It was over before he could process it. She pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Ooops."
Caleb was utterly perplexed. He stared at her, the sounds of the movie fading into an irrelevant buzz. His amusement was gone, replaced by a raw intensity. His eyes, now lidded and dark, furrowed as he stared down at her lips, as if trying to memorize the feel of them. "Was that an accident," he asked, his voice a low, serious rumble that carried none of its earlier playfulness, "or was that intentional?"
A triumphant smile touched her lips. She leaned closer, her own voice a conspiratorial whisper as she threw his own words back at him. "Don't think so hard about it. You're overthinking again."
Before he could answer, she leaned in once more. This time, there was nothing innocent or accidental about it. She pressed her lips to his, deliberately, wantingly, her mouth moving against his with a slow, undeniable pressure. This wasn't a chaste peck or a playful gibe; it was a firm, unambiguous answer to a question he hadn't even realized he had been asking for years.
Taking advantage of his state of ecstasy, she moved with a fluid grace that belied the frantic pounding of her heart. Unhooking her legs from where they were tucked beside her on the sofa, she shifted, crawling onto his lap with an effortless confidence she didn't feel. His thighs were solid muscle beneath her, a sturdy platform, and his sheer size made it easy for her to settle herself exactly where she wanted to be, flush against the heat pooling at his groin. A jolt, sharp and electric, shot through her at the contact. Gods, she had wanted this, dreamed of this, for so long. Every brief visit since he'd left for college had been a torment, a countdown timer to their next goodbye, and she'd practically vibrated with the need to throw herself at him. But he was home for the entire weekend, a rare and precious gift, and she wasn't going to waste a single second of it. She was not going to let him get away from her now.
Her own hunger startled her, the feeling of his lips—firm yet soft—moving against hers was a sensation she had replayed in her mind a million times, late at night, wondering what it would be like to be properly, thoroughly making out with her gege. Every fantasy, however, paled in comparison to this breathtaking reality. It was so much better than she had ever imagined. The familiar, clean scent of their shared apple bodywash clung to the collar of his t-shirt and the warm skin of his neck, a comforting aroma now charged with a new, intoxicating energy. His breath was cool and minty from the toothpaste he’d used earlier, a refreshing contrast to the fire he was igniting deep between her legs.
The line between thought and action blurred into nothing. She couldn't help it; she needed more. With a small, impatient sound that was lost between their mouths, she slid her tongue past his lips, seeking entry. It was a greedy, hungry exploration, a desperate plea for something more substantial than just the press of their mouths. Gods, she wanted more. More time. More touch. More of the intoxicating closeness she had been starved of for years. More of him, her handsome, wonderful gege, right here, right now.
He was a whimpering mess against her mouth, a low, guttural sound of need tearing from his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly at his sides, twitching with indecision, finally found their purpose. They landed firmly on the sweet curve of her waist, his large palms spanning the soft flesh there as if he were afraid she might disappear. His thumbs began to trace slow, deliberate circles against the thin fabric of her top, a desperate, anchoring motion in the storm she had just unleashed within him. The rational part of his brain, the part that had always kept him in the role of her protective gege, screamed at him to stop, to push her away and mutter some stupid, cliché line like, we shouldn't be doing this.
But the protest was weak, easily drowned out by a raw, primal desire he had been wrestling with for years. Because he wanted this too. Gods, he had wanted this for a long, long time—had ached for it in the quiet solitude of his room, had fantasized about it until his body hurt. Every subtle shift of her hips against his was an agonizingly sweet torment, a friction that sent sparks shooting straight to his groin. He was completely lost, engrossed in the symphony of her touch. One of her hands was fisted in his dark hair, tugging just enough to be a delicious sort of pain, while the fingernails of the other raked across the muscles of his back, leaving fiery trails of possession in their desperate wake.
When she finally pulled her lips from his, severing the connection, a wounded sound escaped him. He couldn't help it; his body moved of its own accord, chasing her mouth like a man starved. But she was quicker, her expression unreadable in the low light as she gently but firmly placed a single, delicate finger against his lips, halting his advance.
“Shhhh,” she whispered, the sound a silken command that seemed to vibrate through his entire being. Her eyes, those swirling nebulas, held his captive.
Then, with a slow, deliberate grace that warred with the burning urgency of the moment, she reached for the hem of her tank top. The fabric slid upwards, over her stomach, her ribs, and then over her head in one fluid motion, tossed carelessly aside. Before him, she was beautifully, breathtakingly bare from the waist up. His breath hitched, catching painfully in his lungs. His amethyst gaze dropped, landing on the twin peaks of her breasts, crowned with taut, pebbled nipples that seemed to beckon him closer, a silent, undeniable invitation in the charged air between them.
“I knew it,” Caleb breathed out, the words a raw, astonished whisper that seemed to hang in the air between them. It wasn't a proclamation of victory, but the hushed acknowledgement of a long-held, secret hope finally confirmed. His awe was palpable, a tangible force in the dimly lit room.
Her brow furrowed in confusion, the bold confidence she’d possessed moments ago wavering under the intensity of his amethyst gaze. “What?” she asked, her voice barely audible. Her arms half-lifted in a self-conscious gesture, an instinct to shield herself from his unwavering stare.
He finally tore his eyes from her chest to meet hers, a slow smile spreading across his face, one filled with such genuine delight that it took her breath away. “You have inverted nipples,” he murmured, the statement delivered with the reverence of a devout worshipper beholding a sacred relic.
MC stilled, her body freezing as his words registered. The playful fire in her belly was doused by a sudden, cold wave of insecurity. Of all the things he could have noticed, he had honed in on the one detail she had always felt slightly self-conscious about. “…Do you not like them?” The question was fragile, threaded with a vulnerability she rarely ever showed, the fear of his rejection a sharp, sudden ache in her chest.
“No… I love them,” Caleb insisted, his voice dropping to a low, fervent growl as he closed the remaining distance between them. He shook his head as if to physically banish her doubt. “Baby, they’re so much cuter than I ever imagined.” The possessive adoration blazing in his eyes was almost overwhelming, a promise of worship that made her knees feel weak.
He didn’t give her another moment to doubt him. He went in to kiss her again, one arm wrapping securely around her waist to pull her pliant body flush against the solid muscle of his torso. The kiss was a reclamation, a branding. At the same time, his other hand moved up, closing over one of her breasts. This had to have been a dream. Was it not? The impossible warmth of her skin, the yielding softness of her flesh filling his palm—it felt too perfect, a scene ripped directly from the countless nights he’d spent imagining exactly this. It felt like one of the fantasies he had so often constructed, a desperate imagining of the one thing his heart desired above all others.
She wanted to moan, to completely unravel from the sheer pleasure of his touch. His rough, calloused fingers played with the taut, sensitive nipple he had just praised, the deliberate kneading sending bolts of lightning straight to her pussy. She didn't know how far she was going go tonight, what unspoken boundaries they were about to shatter into a million pieces. A reckless, thrilling curiosity surged through her veins. She liked where this was going, and she was suddenly, desperately hungry to see what came next.
He finally pulled away, the sound a wet parting of lips that echoed in the charged silence of the room. He needed another look at her, to sear this moment into his memory. Her face was a portrait of pure surrender; her eyes, those beautiful nebulas, were hazy with desire, her mouth slack and wet from his kiss. A single, shiny silver thread of saliva still connected them, stretching precariously for a moment before snapping. His gaze fell from her lips, down the delicate column of her throat, to where his hand still cupped her breast, his thumb now circling the peak, coaxing it into a tighter bud.
“Let me taste them, pretty baby,” Caleb rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that vibrated through her very bones. “Let me suck them out for you.”
The words, paired with the relentless motion of his thumb, sent a fresh wave of molten heat pooling between her thighs. She was so incredibly, achingly horny, a desperate whimper catching in her throat as she instinctively ground her hips against his groin. The thick, unyielding hardness of him pressed insistently against her clit was a revelation, insight on the intense pleasure he was capable of delivering. An electrifying thrill, sharp and potent, shot through her. This was him. This was her gege, wanting her.
“Do whatever you want with me, gege,” she breathed, the words a total, unequivocal surrender of her body and soul. “I’m yours.”
A guttural groan ripped from Caleb’s chest at her declaration, a visceral sound of a man who had finally been given permission to claim what he had always believed was his. He didn't hesitate. He dove in, burying his face in the valley between her breasts and inhaling her scent as if it were air itself before his hot, wet mouth closed over the nipple his fingers had been tormenting. He sucked hard, the shocking pull drawing the shy, sensitive peak deep into his mouth. He laved it with his tongue, then licked slow, languid circles around the impossibly-sensitized areola. A sharp, high-pitched cry tore from her lips, and she ground down harder against him, her body practically bouncing in his lap in a frantic, needy rhythm.
Before she could make another sound, his free hand shot up to clasp over her mouth, muffling her cries into his palm. His amethyst eyes were dark, blazing almost frantic. “Shh, pipsqueak,” he commanded, his voice a ragged whisper against her ear. “Easy, now. You’ll wake up gran.”
The warning should have sobered her, but it only served to heighten the illicit thrill of their encounter. In a brazen act of defiance, she flicked her tongue out, licking the salty, calloused skin of his palm. At the same time, she answered his command to be quiet by bucking her hips wildly against him, a silent, desperate scream for more.
Here they were, a tangle of limbs, dry humping on the worn floral fabric of their grandmother's couch, the only light in the living room was the movie still playing in the background. Within the charged moment, the only sounds to them beyond the movie, were the rasp of their heavy breathing and the rhythmic friction of denim against cotton as they ground against each other. Their underwear, damp with a potent mixture of need and want, offered a pathetic barrier against the heat they were generating. It was a sin of the flesh they were mindlessly, desperately fulfilling—a sin that had lived between them for years, a silent, pulsing thing that had never been given a name.
Having thoroughly claimed one breast, Caleb's attention shifted, his gaze, hungry and dark, falling upon its twin. He released the one in his mouth with a wet, plosive pop, leaving it glistening, rosy, and exquisitely tender in the cool night air. His palm slid across the span of her chest to cup the other, still shy and hidden. With a deliberate slowness, he sucked until the nipple, coaxed from its shell, pebbled out in response. So fucking cute, he thought, a wave of possessive adoration washing over him.
The sight was a confirmation of a long-held secret theory. For years, he had been a covert observer, subtly peeking at her chest whenever she wore thin shirts on summer days, a sliver of his attention always devoted to her form. He’d noted with a strange, private frustration that her nipples hardly ever made an appearance, remaining demurely hidden from view. He even remembered googling the subject like a man possessed, his search history a testament to his obsession. He’d wondered why they didn't stick out like all the other girls' did in the movies and television shows he’d watched, a constant, sharp point of contrast that pricked at his curiosity.
It was during one of those late-night, incognito browsing sessions that he discovered there were different types of nipples—a whole taxonomy of areolas and buds. He became utterly convinced that she had something like flat or inverted nipples, but it had remained a maddening hypothesis, something he could never prove. Not until now. Now, with the evidence right before him, the sweet prize of his patient study finally yielded, the taste of her on his tongue and the sight of her perfect, blushing flesh made him feel like a triumphant scholar. He wasn't just touching her; he was finally uncovering the last of her beautiful little secrets. He was obsessed with every single part of her, and he was finally getting to catalogue them all.
The words tore from her throat, raw and broken. "Gege—I think I'm gonna cum—"
Caleb’s entire body locked, his muscles coiling tight before snapping into motion. A guttural sound ripped from his chest as he surged upward, driving his hips into hers with a frantic, bruising rhythm. The couch groaned beneath them, fabric straining under the violent shift of his weight. His hands—one still clamped over her mouth, the other gripping her waist like a vise—dug in hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck—baby, do it—cum for me—" His voice was a shattered growl, his control unraveling thread by thread. The friction was maddening, his cock straining painfully against his jeans, the denim abrasive against her clit with every desperate thrust. Her back arched, spine bowing as pleasure coiled tight and—snapped.
Her body convulsed, a silent scream tearing through her as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Caleb held her through it, his grip unyielding, his breath hot against her ear.
"Good girl," he rasped, voice rough with need. "My perfect baby."
The words sent another shudder through her, aftershocks of her climax rippling beneath his touch. She sagged against him, boneless and spent, but his hands kept her tethered to him.
Her breathing was still ragged, each gasp a desperate pull for air that did little to calm the frantic hammering of her heart. Languid warmth spread through her limbs, a heavy, pleasant weight that made her feel like jelly against Caleb’s powerful frame. But beneath the blissful afterglow, a new, sharper need was coiling in her belly. She shifted, her cheek rubbing against the rough fabric of his shirt. "I want more," she breathed out, the words a phantom whisper against the shell of his ear, so quiet she barely heard them herself.
Caleb’s entire body was a study in tension, his muscles locked and rigid as he fought to rein in the primal urge that had nearly consumed him. He was still trying to process the overwhelming sight of her coming apart beneath him, the scent of her climax a heady perfume in the air. Her quiet murmur barely registered at first, and he pulled back just enough to look down at her, his brow furrowed in confusion. The amethyst and orange of his eyes were dark with lingering lust. "What?" he asked, his voice a low gravelly sound that vibrated through her.
Emboldened by the haze of her own pleasure, she pushed herself up slightly, her hands planting on his chest. Her eyes bored into his. "I want more!" she repeated, her voice rising with a petulant whine, a childish demand that was utterly at odds with the gravity of the situation. She wriggled against him, a deliberate, provocative motion that made the still-hard length trapped in his jeans pulse painfully.
A flicker of disbelief crossed his face, followed by a dark, almost condescending amusement. He thought he knew what she meant, another round of the same frantic, clothed friction. "What more could you possibly want, baby?" he murmured, his tone patronizing as he smoothed a hand over her hair, trying to soothe the wild creature she had become. He couldn't imagine a body could take more after the way hers had just shattered.
"Your cum," she stated, the words leaving her lips with a shocking, uninhibited boldness. She tilted her head, her expression a strange mix of wide-eyed innocence and deliberate seduction. "In my mouth."
The effect was instantaneous and absolute. Caleb’s eyes blew wide, the pupils swallowing the vibrant colors until they were almost black. The hand on her waist tightened, fingers digging into her hip with bruising force, while the other fell away from her hair as if he’d been burned. He stared at her, utterly speechless.
She pressed on, mistaking his stunned silence for hesitation. "You didn't cum, right?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She could feel the undeniable evidence pressed hard against her, a thick, straining ridge beneath the coarse denim. "Let me taste it, gege."
"Pips," he finally managed to croak out. He was trying to shove her back into the box of the little girl he was sworn to protect, the kid sister who followed him everywhere. "You have no idea what you're saying."
"I do!" she insisted, her headstrong nature surging to the forefront. She squirmed against his hold, frustrated by his denial. "I'm nineteen, Caleb! I'm an adult now. I wanna try it." Her plea was a torrent of emotion—curiosity, defiance, and a deep, aching need to close the last remaining distance between them.
A muscle in his jaw jumped, his expression hardening into a stern mask. "Stop it," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous, a clear warning to drop the subject entirely before she said something he couldn't let her take back.
But she was past the point of listening to warnings. The taste of rebellion was as intoxicating as the climax still humming through her veins. "Pull down your pants," she demanded, her gaze dropping pointedly to his fly. "Let me suck your cock."
"No." The word was flat, absolute. A solid wall of denial.
"It's not fair!" she cried, reverting to the pure, childish logic of a tantrum. Her lower lip jutted out. "I let you see my tits, so you have to let me see your cock. It's only fair!"
A harsh, humorless sound escaped him, something between an exasperated sigh. "It's not even the equivalent, Pipsqueak," he ground out, his voice tight with a frustration that was warring violently with the lust her words stoked.
Seeing her arguments were failing, she changed tactics. She leaned in, closing the scant space between their faces. Instead of another plea, she pressed her mouth to his. Her tongue slid out, slowly, deliberately tracing the seam of his lips, tasting the salt of his skin, daring him to refuse her. It was a slow, sensual assault on his resolve, a silent promise of what she was offering, and she felt a deep, shuddering tremor rack his entire body as he fought, and failed, to resist.
His resolve crumbled into dust. The slow, deliberate slide of her tongue was an undoing, a silken key turning a lock he had sworn to keep bolted. When her mouth left his, he felt the loss like a physical blow. Then she was at his neck, a whole new kind of torment beginning.
Her lips, wet and warm, traced the tense line of his jaw before finding the sensitive skin below his ear lobe. She nipped him, a playful, predatory bite that sent a jolt clean through his system. His entire body went rigid. This is wrong, his brain screamed, a frantic, looping mantra that was quickly losing all meaning. He was the older one, the protector. He should stop this, push her away, remind her of who they were to each other. But his body betrayed every rational thought, his hips arching instinctively, seeking more of the devastating friction.
While his mind waged its useless war, her hands began their own patient assault. They slid from his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach, coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans.
“I’m going to make you feel so good,” she whispered against his throat, venom that paralyzed him.
His hands twitched at his sides. He saw them in his mind’s eye, closing around her small wrists, pulling her away. He could end it right now. He needed to end it now. But his hands remained useless, leaden weights anchored by a monstrous desire that he had fought for years. He was just a spectator of his own downfall.
Her fingers, surprisingly steady, fumbled for a moment before finding the hot metal button. He felt the slight pressure against his skin as she worked it, the thick denim resisting her efforts. Then, with a faint pop, it came free. The sound echoed in the quiet room, a point of no return.
“Baby, don’t…” His voice was a wrecked, broken thing, a plea without force. The protest died on his lips as she pulled the fabric apart, her knuckles brushing against the pulsing ridge trapped within his boxers. A guttural groan tore from his chest, a sound of pure, agonized pleasure.
Her fingers closed around the brass tab of his zipper. The slow, metallic rasp of the teeth beginning their descent was the only answer she gave.
The rasp of the zipper was a sound of finality, the severance of the last thread of his restraint. She slid from his lap, her bare knees landing on the worn rug with a whisper of sound. Framed between his legs, she knelt like a penitent before a forbidden altar. His breath left him in a rush. He wanted to tell her to stop, to get up, but the words were a foreign language his tongue could no longer form. All he could do was watch, his whole world narrowing to the vision of her, his pipsqueak, about to utterly destroy him.
Her small hands gripped the waistband of his jeans and boxers, and with a surprisingly firm tug, she peeled them down his muscled thighs. The fabric caught on his knees, a final, pathetic barrier. And he was free. She stopped, her hands dropping away as if she had touched something scalding. Her eyes, those impossible nebulas, went wide. Her mouth opened, a soft 'o' of pure shock, but no sound came out. He was huge. Not just big, but an impossible, thick length of flesh, dark and angry-looking, slick with a pearl of precum that glistened in the flickering television light. She had been bold, so confident in her demands, but the reality of him, in the flesh and not just a hard ridge under denim, was something else entirely. It was a weapon.
A wave of pride, hot and fierce, surged through Caleb. He saw the awe on her face, the momentary fear giving way to a dark, hungry curiosity. This was his. He was hers. Her gaze traveled the entire length of him, a slow inspection, before her eyes lifted to meet his. In them, he saw her decision.
She leaned forward, her dark hair curtaining her face. Her hesitation was gone, replaced by a singular, predatory focus. Her warm breath ghosted across his tip, and his hips jerked upward in an involuntary spasm. Then, her tongue flicked out, a wet, hot lash against the most sensitive part of him. He cried out, a raw, strangled sound that was half pain, half ecstasy. Her hands came up to grip his thighs, her short nails digging into his skin as she began to lick him, her tongue tracing the prominent veins, circling the heavy weight of his balls.
“Baby…” he gasped, his head falling back against the couch cushions, his knuckles white where he gripped the upholstery.
She hummed in response, a low, satisfied sound in her throat, before taking him into her mouth. He was too thick, she couldn't take all of him, but Gods, she was trying. Her throat protested, but she pushed past the discomfort, her jaw aching with the effort. She wanted all of him. She sucked hard, the wet, slick sounds of her mouth working him fueling his ascent. His hands, which had been clutching the sofa for dear life, shot out to tangle in her hair. He wasn’t gentle. He fisted her dark locks, pulling her head tight against him, setting a frantic, desperate rhythm.
“Fuck—Pips, I’m—” The words fractured, broken by the overwhelming, building pressure. He couldn’t hold back. His hips bucked, a violent, final thrust that drove him deep into her throat.
A thick, hot wave of cum flooded her mouth, salty and intense. She swallowed, and then swallowed again, taking every last drop of him until he was empty, his powerful frame shuddering with the last of his release.