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Like I still had his cum on my tongue and wasn’t ready to let it go.

His hands gripped my hips. Mine slid up his chest, fingers grazing the chain he never took off—resting just above the heart I hadn’t meant to touch.

I wanted to taste all of him. So I did.

We didn’t make it to the studio.

He backed me up against the island, pressed his mouth to mine, and kissed me like he was trying to undo the flight, the photo, the silence. Then he gripped the backs of my thighs, and lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing.

My skirt slid up easily. His hands pulled it higher—fingers dragging up the backs of my thighs, parting them.

He dropped to his knees.

And when he pushed my panties to the side and saw how wet I already was—he groaned. Low. Deep. Like I was the only thing he wanted to pray to.

He didn’t say a word. He justate me.Tongue wide and slow. Focused.Devoted.

He licked through my folds and sucked my clit like he was trying to pull a melody from it.

He took his time, like he was making music and I was the beat.

I cried out. Loud. Desperate.

Legs open, trembling, one heel banging softly against a cabinet.

One hand in his hair. The other gripping the edge of the counter like it could keep me from floating away.

He moaned against me, like the taste had wrecked him.

And when I came—shaking, dripping into his mouth, hips lifting off the counter—he didn’t stop.

He licked me through the aftershocks, eyes half-lidded and locked on my face. Like he needed to see what he’d done to me. Like he wanted to be sure I’dnever forget.

He didn’t stop. Not even when I came once, twice—shaking, gasping, dripping down his face.

He just rose, eyes dark and glazed, lips shining and kissed me like he needed me to taste what he’d just done to me.

We crashed on the couch.

Limbs tangled. Breaths uneven.

Ordered Thai. Something spicy. Neither of us touched it.

“I don’t usually do this,” I said, curled into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest.

“Me either.”

I looked up. “You sure about that?”

He smiled. “Not like this.”

I believed him.

The music played low—Chaka, Chante, Marvin. A playlist made for sweat and skin.

He told me about his sister Mena. About his mom leaving. The split that shaped him and then he looked at me, like heneededto know more.

“What about you?”