Page 111 of Unclench Me Softly

And gods help me, I do.

Not just with my mouth, but with every inch of my skin, every part of me that has spent the last six days holding space, maintaining energy, being the center of every circle. I understand what it means to be held instead of to be contained.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”

His jaw softens, just barely. “Good girl.”

The praise hits me like light through stained glass, splintering and illuminating and completely unexpected.

“Now,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “You can touch me.”

I step forward, slower this time, more aware of every breath, every beat. My hands reach for the hem of his shirt, but I wait, because now, even this feels sacred.

He lifts his arms, lets me pull the fabric away, and I marvel at the ease of it. The precision. The quiet power of letting him lead.

It doesn’t feel like giving up control. It feels like finding a doorway I didn’t know existed and finally, finally stepping through.

His hands don’t touch me right away.

Instead, Miles studies me with the precision of a man who never moves without knowing the outcome three steps ahead, like he’s already planned this down to the breath and is simply waiting for me to catch up.

“Lie back,” he says, nodding toward the soft woven rug behind me. “Head to the cushion. Legs open.”

I do as he says, sinking onto my back, the curve of the cushion catching me like I was meant to land here, bare, breathless, and completely uncertain for once.

The air inside the dome feels different now. Tighter.

He presses his palms against the inside of my thighs. “If you want to stop at any time,” he says, voice low, clinical, somehow still kind, “You tell me.”

“I won’t,” I whisper, and it comes out hoarse. Honest.

His mouth curves. It’s not a smile. A confirmation. “Then you’ll let me decide when you get to fall apart.”

The moment he kneels between my legs, I know I’m not in control anymore.

Not of the ritual. Not of my body. Not even of my thoughts, which scatter like spilled herbs under the weight of his gaze.

He touches me like he’s been given written permission to deconstruct me in stages.

One palm presses against the inside of my thigh, steady and grounding, while the other settles low, just above where I need him.

“You remember the rules,” he says quietly, the words sliding under my skin like silk thread pulled tight. “You don’t come until I say.”

I nod, already breathless, already too far gone from nothing but the anticipation of his mouth.

“Say it,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.

“I don’t come unless you say,” I whisper, and the moment I do, something in me, some frantic, aching piece, settles.

And then his mouth is on me.

Hot, precise, devastating.

He licks me like he’s mapping the shape of my surrender, like my pleasure is something to be charted and memorized and maybe one day published in a respected academic journal on tantric disarmament.

And I’m already shaking.

He circles my clit with his tongue in slow, even spirals, pausing to suck just enough to make my hips rise without permission. He presses me back down with one hand, and the control, the absolute certainty of him makes me moan.

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