Page 15 of The Stuffing Situation

Then, as if guided by something beyond programming, Felix set his glass aside. His eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up, deliberate, questioning.

That was the first moment Maya realized what hedidn’tsay mattered more than anything he ever could. She climbed into his lap. This was reckless and possibly unethical. This was precisely what she’d been trying not to want,

And now she was sitting on it.

The house was a tomb of warmth and memory. Faint echoes of laughter, gravy, and her mother’s shameless innuendos still clung to the walls, but they faded beneath the heavier, more electric silence that settled as soon as the door latched behind them.

Felix stood still. A statue carved from synthetic grace and godlike symmetry, except for his eyes. They flicked toward her with something new. No smile. Just hunger.

When Maya climbed into his lap, she felt it. Not just heat, but she felt attention. The raw, unfiltered focus of a being built to observe and respond, now freed tofeel.

His hands didn’t grope her; theyclaimed her. Felix’s long fingers fanned across her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft inner muscle with the precision of a man cataloging tension to release it later.

“You’ve been staring at me,” he murmured, a trace of static under the silk of his voice.

“Well, you’ve been existing,” she breathed, her body already reacting, nipples hardening beneath her shirt, skin flushed and taut.

“I’ve studied your neural pleasure responses,” he whispered, breath brushing the side of her throat, “But I’ve never felt what it’s like towant.”

He stood in one smooth, impossibly strong motion, lifting her as if her weight meant nothing,except it did. Every step toward the bedroom was reverent. A journey, not a task.

She clung to him, cheek pressed to his neck, and swore she could feel something under the surface.

There was no heartbeat, not really.

But therewasrhythm.

Something close to intention. To becoming.

He laid her on the bed, not roughly, but with the quiet awe of someone placing a sacred thing where it belongs.

She gasped at the contrast: cool sheets beneath her back, and the molten warmth of him above. Felix knelt between her thighs and just looked at her.

No smirk, or bravado. Just awe.

“You’re infinite,” he murmured, voice almost breaking.

Then he kissed her ankle. Her knee. The inside of her thigh.

Each kiss was a line of code rewritten with heat and want. His mouth was a miracle: soft lips, a flick of the tongue, a press of the teeth. His touch was exploratory, charting her body as if it were unknown terrain, and when he reached her pussy, there was no rush, no urgency to conquer, only a deliberate, reverent slowness. He savored every second.

He licked her with the attentiveness of someone savoring sound — slow, deep strokes giving way to quick, deliberate ones. He listened with his whole body, adjusting to each tremor, every moan, every breath that stumbled out of rhythm.

Her orgasm didn’t roll in; it detonated, a full-body system crash. She shattered with a cry, legs clamping around his head, hands fisting the sheets. He didn’t stop, didn’t relent, he calibrated, and heescalated.

The second climax tore through her, fire, pure and consuming. The third, she sobbed.

It wasn’t from the pleasure. It felt like being seen. Fully. As if no one had ever worshiped her this way.

Only then did he rise, face slick, eyes wide with something she hadn’t seen in him before, something close to fear.

“Did I…” he started, hesitant.

She grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down, pressing her mouth to his with feral need.

“Now,” she panted. “I need you inside me, not perfect, not programmed.Just you.”

He entered her slowly, with a stretch, A perfect fit. A match that felt less mechanical and more gravity.