8: The Threshold Between Flesh and Dream

2 August 2000

After a quiet exchange with Priya who said she would wear headphones, Anya shut the bedroom door and packed any spaces with bedsheets and towels much to Bharath’s amusement. What followed was the best night of both Bharath and Anya’s life

They continued their session in the club storehouse and explored every inch of each other’s bodies, bringing each other to more climaxes than they thought humanly possible.

As they collapsed into the bed panting, Anya wrapped around Bharath tightly, she started to draw her fingers through his well defined abs, alternating between licking and kissing him everywhere.

“So, what should we do next?”

“Is there anything else we can do without having actual sex?” asked Bharath wondrous at this woman’s appetite.

“You were telling me that you’ve met the Earth goddess ... Why don’t you tell me about her?”

“Kim? I met her yesterday at the football club. She is a student psychologist assigned to me. The club wants to ensure that I don’t become a decadent hedonist after the photo shoot ... like you,” teased Bharath.

“Hmm ... you have not even tasted decadence yet jaan.” moaned Anya as she kissed his jawline while pumping his shaft.

“Do you want to test out my theory from the other night? That you can pull your goddesses into dreams after you meet them in real life?”, she asked breathily.

“For that, you’d have to stop what you are doing and let us sleep first,” groaned Bharath climaxing hard all over Anya’s hand, unable to handle the imagery of Anya and Kim in the same dream!

Anya giggled against his neck, cleaned her hand making a show of swallowing his spend before licking his body clean.

“Fine,” she whispered, licking a last drop from his tip like it was cream on a cherry. “But only because I want to see what your little dream powers can really do.”

She reached for a towel, wiped her mouth with playful theatrics, then curled back into him, nuzzling her cheek into his chest. Her thigh slid over his waist possessively, her arm draped across his stomach like a silken shackle.

Bharath groaned contentedly, the weight of her body, the warmth of her breath, grounding him. “You’re a menace,” he mumbled.

“I’m your menace,” she whispered, pressing a kiss just above his heart.

They lay like that for a while, tangled, quiet, the sound of the ceiling fan blending with their slowing breaths. Anya’s fingers idly traced his jawline, her eyelids growing heavy.

“So umm ... We need to sleep now before we can try to pull her in.”

Anya hummed. “Good. Just remember which goddess claimed you first.”

Bharath smiled, already slipping under. “Hard to forget. You’re still clinging to me.”

As sleep pulled them under, their legs tangled tighter.

Kim stood barefoot on a surface that shimmered like liquid obsidian. The air around her pulsed — soft, dense, perfumed with something she couldn’t identify. Not quite jasmine. Not quite heat. The edges of her vision sparkled faintly. Every breath felt ... enhanced.

She looked down.

Her hands were glowing faintly gold at the fingertips. Her skin was soft, flawless. Luminous. Her clothes were unfamiliar — not her dowdy kurti — but a deep, sheer green wrap that barely clung to her curves, as if sewn from the dream itself.

“Lucid dreaming,” she whispered. “Sensory amplification. Theta state triggering subconscious—” She paused.

That voice. Her voice. It hadn’t trembled like that since she was thirteen and saw her first erotic painting in a psychology textbook. The memory surged unbidden: fingers clenched between thighs, shame boiling over into restraint.

“This isn’t real,” she muttered. “Just a projection. Just—”

“Hi.”

The voice melted around her like warm sugar.

Kim turned. And nearly stumbled.

A woman — petite, with dusky skin, body sculpted to perfection, thick hair cascading like waves of silk — was watching her with a smile that was too knowing, too tender, too amused. She was draped in crimson ribbons, barely covering her body, ankle-deep in nothingness, with cheekbones and a face sculpted by the gods and eyes that sparkled like secrets.

“You must be Kim,” the woman said, stepping closer. Her voice was silk and heat and wine. “He told me you were beautiful. He didn’t say you were this beautiful.”

Kim took a step back. “Wait—who—where is—?”

She turned again. And then he was there.

Bharath. In the flesh. Or the dream-flesh. Shirtless, bronzed, barefoot. Radiant. And smiling at her like he had always known she’d arrive.

“This isn’t possible,” Kim said, voice thin. “You’re from real life. I saw you yesterday. I examined you. We had one intake session. This—this violates every protocol—”

Anya stepped between them, reaching out slowly — like she was trying not to startle a wild deer.

“It’s okay,” she murmured. “Breathe. You’re dreaming. But not alone.”

Kim’s mouth opened, then closed.

“You’ve seen him in visions, haven’t you?” Anya whispered. “He’s touched you before you even met. You’ve tasted him in your sleep.”

Kim’s face turned crimson. “I—I don’t—”

“You’re brilliant,” Anya said, circling slowly. “So logical. So tight, so composed. You’ve denied yourself so much, haven’t you, darling?”

Kim trembled.

She felt Anya behind her now. That voice pressed against her nape like a kiss. “Tell me something, Kimmy. When was the last time someone made you feel instead of think?”

Kim’s knees buckled.

She turned, finally looking Anya in the eye. “Who are you?”

“I’m the woman who’s going to taste you first,” Anya whispered. “Before he even touches you.”

Kim’s gasp was involuntary. Her body reacted before her mind could.

Anya’s hand slid up her arm. Warm. Possessive. Kim inhaled sharply as sparks danced under her skin — places she hadn’t known could feel this way lit up like constellations.

“No—wait—this is a breach—of—of—” Kim tried.

Anya pressed a single finger to her lips. “Hush. You’ve waited your whole life to be taken apart, haven’t you?” Kim whimpered.

And Bharath — silent, radiant Bharath — stood at the edge, eyes dark with reverence. Watching. Waiting.

She had never felt more exposed.

And never more wanted.

Kim tried to look away. She tried to find something familiar — a table, a textbook, a whiteboard — anything to ground herself. But there was only Anya. And Bharath. And the unbearable heat between her thighs.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered. “This isn’t ... I don’t even know what this is.”

Anya tilted her head. “This is your first step. Into a world where you get to feel, Kimmy. You’ve spent your whole life theorizing pleasure. Writing papers on it. Studying dysfunction. Reading about other people’s surrender.”

She stepped forward. Kim didn’t move.

“You’ve interviewed dozens of girls. Made notes about their sexual awakenings. Asked them how it felt when they touched themselves for the first time. When they let someone else touch them. But what about you, Kim?” Anya whispered, lips almost at her ear. “When was the last time someone touched you and meant it?”

“I don’t—” Kim’s voice cracked. “No one—”

“That’s what I thought.”

Anya’s hand came to rest gently at Kim’s waist. Her fingers barely pressed through the sheer wrap, but the contact sent a tremor straight down Kim’s spine. Her breath hitched.

“I want to know every inch of you,” Anya said. “I want to learn you like you’ve tried to learn others. But I’m not here to ask. I’m here to show you.”

Kim’s legs were trembling. “This is a dream. I’m not really—”

Anya pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Your body doesn’t know the difference.”

And with that, she leaned in.

The kiss landed on Kim’s collarbone — light, warm, unbearably soft. Another just above the curve of her breast. Then a third, right over her racing heart.

Kim gasped, shivering under the contact. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” Anya whispered, “and I will.”

She lowered herself to her knees.

Kim’s breath caught in her throat.

“Wait. Please,” she whispered, shame already burning in her chest. “I don’t know how to do any of this. I’ve never ... I’ve never—” Anya looked up at her from between her thighs, expression reverent. “Then let me teach you. For him - our man! Look at how much he is enjoying this.”

She hooked her fingers gently through the edges of the green wrap, and Kim didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.

Her legs parted like they’d always meant to open for someone. Like this had always been waiting to happen.

Cool air kissed her thighs. Anya’s hands were warm against her skin — so warm it almost burned. She pressed her lips to the inside of Kim’s knee, then her thigh, slowly trailing upward like a flame. Kim whimpered, hips bucking at the sensation.

Every nerve in her body was alive. She could feel the pulse of her heartbeat in her nipples, in her clit, in her fingertips. Her mouth was open but no words came out.

“I haven’t even touched you here yet,” Anya said softly, voice vibrating against her skin.

Then she did.

One soft lick. Kim screamed.

Not from pain. Not even from shock. But from the unbearable release of something she had locked away her entire life. The sound came from her belly, from her lungs, from her soul. She slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified at herself.

But Bharath stepped closer.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he said, voice thick.

Kim moaned again.

Anya’s tongue circled, slow, luxurious, reverent. She wasn’t rushing. She was worshipping. The kind of touch Kim had only read about in fevered survey responses and half-censored letters tucked into psychology journals.

The words blurred. The science blurred. There was only sensation.

“Oh my god,” Kim sobbed. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Anya murmured, mouth slick, “You’re doing perfectly.”

And then her fingers joined her mouth. Kim shattered.

She came with a scream she didn’t recognize, her thighs locking around Anya’s head, her entire body trembling violently. She wasn’t thinking anymore. She wasn’t rational. She was alive.

And Bharath ... Bharath was watching her like she was holy. Like she was finally real.

Kim was still shaking.

Her limbs were jelly. Her breath came in stutters. Her thighs trembled as if her muscles couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. She had collapsed backward, hair fanned across the obsidian floor, one hand clutched over her mouth, the other tangled uselessly in the air.

Anya rested her cheek gently on Kim’s thigh, smiling like a well-fed priestess at temple.

“You came so hard,” she whispered. “I felt you in my throat.”

Kim whimpered.

“I shouldn’t—I’ve never—” she tried to form a sentence, but her voice cracked.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Anya said gently. “You already said yes.”

Kim turned her head.

Bharath was kneeling beside her now, barechested and calm, his eyes not ravenous—but reverent. Steady. Like he was witnessing a miracle unfold.

He reached for her hand. Their fingers touched.

And Kim felt it again — that familiar electric tingle from her visions. The ones she had tried to write off as dreams. The ones where he held her down and worshipped her with an intensity that both terrified and thrilled her.

“I saw you,” she said softly. “Before we ever met.”

Bharath nodded, brushing hair away from her face. “I saw you too.”

His thumb grazed her cheek.

“I didn’t think you were real,” she whispered.

“I didn’t think this was possible,” he replied.

She looked down between them—at his broad chest, the hard line of his abs, the barely restrained erection under the thin dream-cloth he wore. Her body clenched involuntarily.

“But I’m not like her,” she said, glancing at Anya. “I’m not ... confident. I don’t know how to do any of this.”

Bharath leaned in until their foreheads touched. “Then let us teach you ... slowly”

He kissed her—finally. And it was nothing like the fantasy.

It was better.

Soft, aching, exploratory. His lips brushed hers with a patience that shattered her walls more deeply than any demand could. He didn’t consume her. He invited her.

Her mouth opened for him instinctively. Their tongues met. Her body arched.

Somewhere beneath her panic, beneath the logic, beneath the resistance — something gave way. Anya’s voice was low and teasing. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?”

Bharath didn’t answer with words. His hands slid across Kim’s stomach, his kisses trailing lower—along her jaw, her throat, the tender curve where her collarbone met her breast.

Kim gasped as his tongue flicked over her taut caramel colored nipple. Her back arched violently.

“Too much,” she whispered, trembling. “It’s all too much—”

“No,” Anya said from behind her, fingers stroking Kim’s hair. “This is your body remembering. You were always meant for this. Let it in, Kimmy.”

Bharath suckled her breast, tongue slow, lips possessive. His hands grabbed her huge breasts fingers squeezing and rolling the other nipple.

Kim screamed as she climaxed squirting a small amount of girlcum unable to handle this assault on her breasts.

“Wow! She actually squirted jaan!” exclaimed Anya looking wondrously at Kim. “We need to find out if I can do that too!”

Anya then moved to Kim’s other side, whispering hotly into her ear as Kim was recovering from her climax panting. “Do you know what it feels like to have both of us love you? Worship you?”

Kim shook her head, her lips parted in silent surrender.

“Let’s show her,” Anya said.

Bharath raised his head. “Tell me if you want more,” he whispered.

Kim looked at them both — Anya’s radiant beauty, Bharath’s golden strength — and nodded with a breathless, “Yes.” Anya crawled behind her, wrapping her arms around Kim’s waist, mouth pressing soft kisses along the back of her neck.

Bharath slid lower, kissing down her belly.

Her hips rose to meet him.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” Kim moaned. “I didn’t even know I was waiting. I just—” Her voice broke.

Anya kissed her ear. “You were waiting for us.”

Bharath’s mouth reached her core.

Kim cried out again, louder this time.

Her fingers dug into Anya’s arms. Her body writhed under Bharath’s tongue—different from Anya’s; firmer, broader, like a vow written in flesh.

She felt Anya press kisses between her shoulder blades. “We’re going to ruin you for anything else,” Anya whispered. “And you’ll thank us.”

And in that moment — as Bharath made her tremble and Anya held her heart — Kim knew. She had never been freer.

Kim’s thighs were still trembling from the second orgasm when she looked down at him. Bharath’s mouth glistened, lips wet from her climax, his gaze fixed on her like she was scripture come to life. His hands rested softly on her hips — steady, grounding, reverent. Like he couldn’t believe she’d let him in. Like he didn’t want to move unless she asked him to.

And that look ... That look did something to her. Something ancient. Something wild.

“I want to...” Kim said, the words catching in her throat.

Bharath tilted his head gently. “You can do anything.”

“I want to touch you. Like you touched me.”

A warm exhale from Anya behind her, the softest sound of approval. “There she is,” she whispered. “There’s my Kimmy.”

Kim shifted, slow and unsteady, and Bharath let her guide him back. He moved without resistance, settling onto the dream-soft floor like a worshipper kneeling at temple.

Kim crawled forward on trembling knees.

Her hands hovered above his chest — broad and golden, muscles rising and falling with breath. She placed one palm down. His heartbeat pounded through her fingertips.

“I used to imagine this,” she said. “But it was never ... mine.”

“It’s yours,” Bharath said, voice husky.

She leaned down, kissed the center of his chest.

He gasped.

And suddenly — a thrill surged through her.

She had made him do that.

She kissed lower, down the ridge between his abs, her hands trailing the lines of his sides. His breath hitched again, and Kim flushed with an emotion she’d never known in the context of her own body: power. Sensual, sacred power.

Her fingers reached the edge of his wrap.

“May I?” she asked, voice fragile but resolute.

Bharath nodded wordlessly.

She pulled aside the wrap.

He sprang free.

Kim inhaled sharply — not just at the sight of him, but at the meaning of it. His trust. His surrender. The way he didn’t try to dominate or direct. He simply waited. For her.

She leaned in, kissing the base, her lips reverent. Bharath’s breath turned ragged.

Behind her, Anya had knelt, watching with glowing eyes. “God, you’re beautiful when you let go,” she murmured, brushing Kim’s hair back from her face.

Kim looked at her, suddenly unsure again. “Am I doing it right?”

Anya leaned in. “There’s no right or wrong. Only how much he feels.”

She turned Bharath’s face toward hers and kissed him deeply while Kim lowered her mouth to his length and took him in. Bharath groaned — a raw, involuntary sound that sent a thrill shooting through Kim’s belly.

Anya pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper, “That sound? You did that.”

Kim swirled her tongue slowly, experimenting with pressure, her body lit with adrenaline and wonder. Her hands gripped his thighs, her rhythm growing bolder.

“Fuck,” Bharath breathed, hips twitching.

“Too much?” Kim asked, lifting her head briefly.

“No,” he choked. “Too perfect.”

Anya moved beside Kim, licking a stripe along the base of Bharath’s shaft where Kim’s mouth had just been.

Kim gasped.

“You can share pleasure, you know,” Anya whispered. “You don’t have to hold it all alone.”

She reached up and kissed Kim softly — her first kiss not of dominance or initiation, but of equal fire. Their lips slid together, still tasting of him, tongues meeting in tentative rhythm.

And then they descended together.

Two mouths. Four hands. One trembling, grateful man.

Kim kissed the tip while Anya licked the underside. They moved in silent synchronicity, like a ritual they’d somehow always known. Bharath couldn’t stay still. He groaned louder, his body rising off the ground with every pass of their tongues.

Kim giggled — breathless, radiant. “We’re breaking him.”

Anya laughed. “Good. Let him know what it feels like to be overwhelmed.”

Then Anya pulled Kim close again, whispering with a grin, “Ready to ride him together?”

Kim’s eyes widened.

Then she nodded.

Anya smiled like a star being born.

“Let’s worship our god.”

Kim was still breathless from the taste of him — her lips wet, her heart a thunderstorm — when Anya pulled her close and cradled her face between soft, reverent hands.

“You okay?” Anya asked, voice low and steady.

Kim nodded slowly. “More than okay.”

Anya kissed her forehead. “Then it’s time.”

Kim turned.

Bharath lay on the obsidian floor like a sculpture carved from amber and want. His body glistened with a dream-sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling, hands loose at his sides as if he didn’t trust himself to move unless commanded.

“Come here,” he whispered, voice rough with awe. “Please.”

Kim crawled forward, straddling his hips. Her thighs trembled as she took him in — the size of him, the weight, the gravity of what they were about to do. She reached between them and wrapped her hand around him, guiding the tip to her entrance. Her breath caught.

Anya knelt behind her, whispering encouragement, steady hands resting on her hips. “You’re in control, Kimmy. He’s yours. Just breathe.”

Kim took a shaky inhale, then lowered herself — slowly — onto Bharath’s length.

Her walls stretched, hot and slick, the sensation staggering.

Bharath moaned beneath her. “Oh God—Kim...”

She paused, halfway down, panting. “I can feel ... everything.”

“I know,” Anya whispered against her neck. “That’s what being truly opened feels like.”

Kim eased down further, inch by inch, until he was fully inside her. A whimper escaped her throat — not from pain, but from the sheer depth of it. He filled every part of her, pressed against places she hadn’t known existed.

She leaned forward, bracing herself against his chest. Bharath cupped her jaw and kissed her — a soft, trembling kiss, one that said he understood everything she couldn’t put into words.

Then Anya pressed closer from behind, her breasts warm against Kim’s back, her hands guiding Kim’s hips. “Rock with me,” she whispered. “Let’s take him together.”

Kim moved — hesitantly at first, then with rising confidence. Her hips rolled in slow circles, and Bharath’s breath grew ragged beneath her.

Anya mirrored the rhythm, grinding against Kim from behind, her hands never leaving Kim’s body. Each thrust became a shared wave, a joint offering.

“You’re doing so well,” Anya murmured. “He’s unraveling because of you.”

Kim glanced down. Bharath’s head was thrown back, jaw clenched, hands now gripping the floor as if anchoring himself. Every shift of her hips made him twitch, groan, need.

She had never felt so powerful. So free.

Anya’s fingers slipped between Kim’s legs, circling her clit in perfect counterpoint to her thrusts. Kim gasped, her rhythm faltering.

“Don’t stop now,” Anya whispered, lips at her shoulder. “You’re going to make him lose control.” Bharath opened his eyes, locking onto Kim’s face. His hands finally rose — reverent, shaking — to cup her breasts.

“You’re ... incredible,” he whispered.

Kim’s body burned.

“Faster,” Anya said, her voice more urgent now. “Let go, Kimmy. Take what you need.” Kim moved faster. Rode harder. Her body was a storm. Bharath met her thrusts now, matching her, lifting his hips into hers.

Anya’s fingers never stopped, and soon Kim was crying out — not from fear or shame, but from the overwhelming flood of sensation.

“I—I’m close,” she gasped.

“Together,” Anya said, wrapping her arms around Kim from behind, their bodies perfectly aligned.

And then— It happened.

Kim shattered.

Her scream tore through the dreamscape as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. Bharath came with her, spilling deep inside, his body stiffening beneath her as he groaned her name like a prayer.

Anya held her through it all — hands gripping, lips at her neck, whispering dirty thoughts as Kim convulsed in bliss. When the tremors finally faded, Kim collapsed forward onto Bharath’s chest. Anya followed, wrapping her arms around both of them like a halo.

For a long time, there was only breath. Heat. The thrum of three hearts slowly syncing to a shared rhythm. Kim turned her face against Bharath’s chest, eyes heavy, limbs molten. “I didn’t know ... it could be like this.”

Anya kissed her temple. “Now you do.”

Bharath’s hand stroked her back. “You’re safe. You’re ours.”

Kim sighed — not out of habit or anxiety, but out of something else. Peace.

And with that, she drifted off into the quiet dark, still wrapped around him, Anya’s arms holding them both in the stillness of the dream.

Together. Whole. Home.

3 August 2000

The sun filtered gently through the curtains of Bharath’s apartment, painting the room in soft gold. For once, there was no urgency in the air. No secrets to chase. No cameras to dodge. Just the steady rhythm of a quiet morning — and the lingering echo of something far more intimate.

Anya lay tangled in the sheets, her hair a disheveled halo, lips parted in sleep, cheeks still flushed from the night before. Not just from him — but from her.

Bharath watched her for a long moment. A memory flickered: Anya’s mouth wet with Kim’s taste, her laughter throaty and wicked, her fingers clutching his wrist as Kim screamed between them. The dream had been too vivid, too raw to fade like others before it. She had come. Kim had come. And so had they — over and over, tangled in each other like gods discovering worship.

He pressed a kiss to Anya’s shoulder and slipped out of bed.

In the kitchen, he moved with a quiet rhythm — pouring water, switching on a faint hum of Tamil oldies. When he chopped coriander, the scent triggered another memory: Kim’s hair clinging to her damp skin, her voice cracking as she surrendered under Anya’s mouth. He smiled to himself, overwhelmed and reverent.

He made a plate for Priya too, and left it on the table with a cheeky sticky note: “Your daily bribe for not killing me in my sleep. XO, Chef Bharath.”

By the time Anya woke — disoriented and naked under the sheets — Bharath had laid out plates and was now finishing a short home workout in the living room, shirtless and glistening with sweat. Her eyes found him immediately, and he could tell by her smirk that she remembered too.

She padded out in nothing but her underwear, yawning exaggeratedly. “Don’t mind me,” she said sweetly. “Just stretching.”

Bharath turned to say something but froze as she slid into a full Adho Mukha Svanasana, her back arched, her body gleaming in the morning light. His breath hitched. “That’s illegal. That’s just criminal.”

“Yoga,” she corrected. “It’s ancient. Divine. Worshipful.” She held the last word a beat longer — a private joke now. “It’s foreplay,” he muttered, eyes still hungry. “You and her nearly broke me last night.”

She giggled and flowed into another pose — slow, deliberate Bitilasana Marjariasana — her hips rolling with the memory of Kim pinned beneath her. Then into Bhujangasana, chest pushing forward, her breath shallow. “She’s going to come again, isn’t she?” she whispered, more to herself than him.

He nodded. “I hope so.”

Anya twisted into a seated spinal twist, graceful and feline, then shifted fluidly into a half-pigeon pose, one leg folded beneath her, the other extended. Her hips tilted just enough to make his mouth go dry.

“Maybe don’t stare so hard, then,” she teased, glancing back. “Priya will know.”

“No promises,” he said softly. “I want her to know.”

Just then, Priya shuffled out in an oversized tee, squinting at the light. “Why do I feel like I’ve walked into an after-hours club for beautiful people?”

“Sit,” Bharath said, tossing her a plate. “Eat. I bribed you.”

Priya took one bite, paused, then groaned. “Fine. You live another day.”

But as she took her seat, she glanced at them both — at the way Anya’s fingers brushed Bharath’s wrist, at the faint smile that lingered on both their lips. And though she said nothing, her eyes narrowed slightly.

They ate together, teasing, laughing, planning the day. The girls decided that the easiest way for Priya to continue her subterfuge was to hide in plain sight. Bharath had the bright idea that Priya could be Anya’s personal assistant who accompanied her - which both girls agreed to with enthusiasm. They started making plans immediately. Priya needed new clothes to pose as Anya’s assistant — something sleek but unobtrusive. She promised to be back by lunch.

As soon as she left, Bharath pounced.

He didn’t give Anya a chance to speak, let alone protest. He caught her by the waist as she reached to clear the plates, spun her around, and pressed her against the dining table.

“You think you can twist yourself into knots half-naked and just walk away?” he growled into her ear.

“Guilty,” she breathed, smirking.

His answer was a nip at her neck, a sharp inhale as his fingers slipped beneath her vest. His hands were everywhere — rough and reverent, exploring every dip and curve with unhurried hunger. He wasn’t rushing. He was reclaiming.

He picked her up with one arm under her thighs, carried her to the sofa, and dropped her gently but with intent. Her underwear soon followed.

“I’m going to make you regret every stretch you teased me with,” he whispered, his lips brushing her hipbone.

“Then don’t hold back,” she dared, voice already trembling.

He pinned her wrists gently, lowered his mouth to her breasts, and took his time — kissing, tasting, until she was arching into him, breathless and squirming. Then he moved lower. Slower. With his tongue, he worked her open, methodical and relentless. He worshipped her, coaxing gasps and shivers with every flick, every pause, every moaned command. She clenched around nothing, cried out his name, and finally shattered in his arms.

When she was limp beneath him, hair splayed, chest heaving, he kissed his way back up to her mouth, slow and tender. “I’m not done with you,” he whispered.

But he didn’t take her. Not fully. Not yet. Just held her. Let her come down from the edge, still humming with pleasure, lips swollen from kissing, thighs slick and trembling.