Page 124 of Unclench Me Softly

“You’re going to let me touch you,” he whispers against my ear, his voice thick with the kind of promise that makes my knees wobble, “Slow... deep... until you forget how to speak in full sentences.”

I laugh, nervous, breathy, already soaked, and it stutters out of me like a confession. “I already only speak in mantras and metaphors,” I manage to say, my voice shaking, my brain spinning out somewhere between panic and worship.

He chuckles low, the sound vibrating against my spine as he leans in closer, his mouth brushing the sensitive skin just beneath my ear. “Then let’s make you a new one,” he breathes, the words skating over my neck like a spell. “How about this, I belong to Asher’s mouth.”

His hands move lower, slow and devastating, palms flattening against my stomach, dragging down, down, until his fingers slip between my thighs, finding me slick, aching, desperate, and he groans, raw and wrecked against my skin.

“Fuck, Bliss,” he mutters, voice breaking, “You’re dripping. You do want this.”

“Yes,” I gasp, already trembling under his hands, every nerve ending sparking to life.

His fingers tease me, slow and maddening, circling where I need him most, but never giving enough, never giving in. “You want my fingers?” he asks, so soft it almost sounds like prayer.

“Yes.”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to make you come while I tell you what a good girl you are?”

I make a sound, half sob, half moan, that doesn’t even have a name, some desperate, broken noise scraped out from the deepest part of me, the part that’s been waiting for him without even knowing it.

He slides two fingers into me, slow, unrelenting, curling in exactly the right way, and I arch, moan, grasp at his wrist like it’s a lifeline.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect for me. So soft. So wet. So ready. I want to ruin you slow,” he whispers, his voice curling into my ear like smoke, like prophecy, like the thing my body has been waiting to hear since the first moment I saw him smile. “I want to take my time,” he murmurs, his hands dragging down my hips, reverent and possessive all at once, “I want to make you come again and again until your legs don’t work and you forget every other name but mine.”

And then he turns me, guiding me back until the bed catches me. He lowers me onto the mattress like I’m something precious, something breakable, and then he kneels between my thighs, palms pressing my legs open wider like he’s parting the gates to something sacred.

And he devours me.

With his mouth.

With his tongue.

With his goddamn soul.

He licks me like every slow drag of his tongue is an invocation, a worship, a vow. Like my body is scripture and he’s just found the lost verse that unlocks the divine.

And the whole time, the whole fucking time, he talks to me.

Softly. Filthy. Worshipful.

“So good for me.”

“So fucking sweet.”

“You taste like surrender.”

“Let me hear it, Bliss. Let me hear what you sound like when you break for me.”

And gods, I do.

I shatter.

Hard and wet and loud, my whole body pulsing around his mouth, my hands buried in his hair like I’m trying to anchor myself to this plane, like if I let go I’ll just ascend straight into the next life with him still on his knees, still tasting me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.

But he doesn’t stop.

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