Chapter 232: One Oat Flat White

His mouth descends. Not to her lips. Lower. He presses a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, then lower, trailing heat down to her breast. When his tongue finds her nipple, her fingers knot into the fabric of his shirt. He keeps the shirt on. Keeps everything on. She can feel the texture of the cotton against her bare skin, the roughness of the buttons, the warmth of his body underneath. The contrast is maddening: him, still covered, still put together, while she’s unraveling beneath him.

He takes her into his mouth. Slow. Deliberate. His tongue circles, then flattens, then circles again. He sucks gently at first, then harder, and a sound escapes her throat that she doesn’t recognize, something raw and unguarded. His other hand mirrors the attention, palm cupping her other breast, thumb dragging over the peak until it tightens under his touch.

He switches. Mouth moving from one to the other with a reverence that makes her chest ache. His lips close around her other nipple and he sucks, and her hips shift without permission. He hums against her skin, low and satisfied, like she’s something he’s been starving for.

His hands slide down. Over her waist. Over her hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of her pants and drags them down, taking everything with them: pants, underwear, all of it. She lifts her hips to help, and then she’s bare. Completely bare. Naked beneath him while he’s still fully dressed, still in his shirt and pants, and something about that imbalance makes her cheeks flush hot.

"No, no, that’s not fair," she breathes. Her hands tug at his shirt collar. "Why am I naked and you’re not?"

He leans down. His lips brush her ear. "Hush."

One word. Low. A command wrapped in velvet.

His hand slides between her thighs. His fingers find her, find where she’s already slick, already aching, and he groans against her neck. The sound vibrates through her. His thumb presses against her clit and begins a slow, maddening circle. Just pressure at first. Slow, deliberate pressure that makes her thighs part wider.

Then his fingers slip lower. One presses into her, and her breath stutters. He pushes deeper, slow, so slow, and her body opens around him. He adds a second finger and her spine curves. He pumps them into her, still slow, still torturous, and her hands scramble for purchase. They find his shirt. She grips it. Twists the fabric in her fists.

"Ah, haaah, E-Edrik, oh my god..."

Her voice breaks on his name. She can’t help it. The way he curls his fingers inside her, the way his thumb keeps that relentless rhythm against her clit, it’s too much and not enough all at once. Her hips buck upward, chasing his hand, and she feels his mouth curve against her skin.

"Hmmm?" The sound is teasing. Dark. His mouth moves back to her breasts and he licks a slow stripe upward, following the curve. "I love these," he murmurs against her. His mouth closes over her nipple again, sucking harder now. "So much. I love them so much."

The words rumble through her skin. She can’t think. She can barely breathe. Her body moves on instinct, hips rolling into his hand, fingers tightening in his shirt, head falling back. She can feel everything: every drag of his fingers inside her, every press of his thumb, every hot wet pull of his mouth.

He pulled back just enough to watch her face, eyes dark. "Look at you, dripping all over my hand already. You like when I suck on these tits, don’t you? Tell me."

"Yes," she breathed, hips rolling down onto his fingers. "God, yes. Suck them harder."

He grinned, that possessive edge sharpening his features.

Her hand reaches down. Finds him through his pants. She cups him and feels the hard length of him beneath the fabric, and he growls, actually growls, into her chest. The vibration of it sends a shockwave through her. His teeth graze her nipple, then nibble harder. She squeezes him through the cloth and he pushes into her hand, an involuntary thrust that tells her everything about how close he is to losing control.

She fumbles with his belt. Her fingers are clumsy, trembling, but she manages. She pulls the buckle loose, undoes the button, drags the zipper down. She reaches in and takes him out, and her breath catches. He’s huge. Her fingers don’t close all the way around him. She needs both hands. She wraps them around his length, and he hisses through his teeth, and his fingers inside her stutter for a moment before resuming their rhythm.

She strokes him. Two hands working together. Her thumb swirls over the tip, smearing the slickness there, and his whole body shudders. He presses his forehead to her chest. His breathing is ragged now, the first crack in his composure. She does it again. Thumb circling the head, slow, playing with him the way he’s been playing with her.

His fingers pump into her harder. Faster. His mouth finds her breast again and he sucks, tongue working against her nipple in time with his hand. She’s losing coherence. The world is narrowing to sensation: his fingers inside her, his mouth on her, his cock heavy and hot in her hands. She strokes him faster. He finger-fucks her deeper. The rhythm builds between them like something alive.

She comes. Hard. It crashes through her without warning. Her whole body seizes, back arching, thighs clamping around his hand. A sound tears from her throat. His name, maybe. Or just sound. Her hands tighten on him involuntarily and he groans, long and low, his mouth still pressed to her breast, his fingers still inside her, working her through every aftershock until she’s trembling and gasping and can’t take anymore.

He pulls his hand away. She hears herself whimper at the loss. He shifts, positions himself over her. His weight settles above her, his clothed body pressing against her bare skin. The friction of it, cotton against her nipples, fabric against her oversensitive skin, makes her shiver.