“Wouldn’t you rather—”
A nip. “No.”
“I didn’t even say—”
He glanced up. “There isn’t anything I’d rather do.”
“But—”
He sucked on one of her lips with a loud, wet noise, and she gasped. And then his tongue was inside her, and she moaned, half in surprise, half at the feeling of— Yes.
Yes.
“Fuck,” someone said. It wasn’t Olive, so it must have been Adam.
“Fuck.” It felt incredible. Otherworldly. His tongue, dipping in and out, circling and lapping, and his nose against her skin, and the quiet sounds he made from deep in his chest whenever she contracted, and Olive was going to—she . . .
She wasn’t sure she was going to come. Not with another person in the room touching her. “This might take a while,” she said apologetically, hating how thin her voice sounded.
“Fuck, yes.” His tongue swiped the entirety of her, a long, broad stroke.
“Please.” She didn’t think she’d ever heard him quite this enthusiastic about anything, not even grant writing or computational biology. It kicked the whole thing a few notches higher for her, and it got worse when she noticed his arm. The one that wasn’t cupping the cheek of her ass and holding her open.
He hadn’t taken himself out of his pants yet, that Olive could see, and wasn’t that unfair, since she was all splayed open for him. But the way his arm was shifting, how his hand was moving up and down slowly, that was just unbearable. She arched further, her spine shaping a perfect curve as the back of her head hit the pillow.
“Olive.” He leaned back a few centimeters and kissed the inside of her shaking thigh. Took a deep breath with his nose, as if to hold the smell of her within himself. “You can’t come yet.” His lips brushed against her folds as his tongue dipped in again, and she squeezed her eyes shut. There was a liquid, burning heat blossoming in her tummy, spilling all over her. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, grasping for an anchor. This was impossible.
Unmanageable.
“Adam.”
“Don’t. Two more minutes.” He sucked on— God, yes. There.
“I’m—sorry.”
“One more.”
“I can’t—”
“Focus, Olive.”
In the end, it was his voice that ruined everything. That quiet, possessive tone, the hint of an order in the low rasp of his words, and the pleasure broke over her like an ocean wave. Her mind snapped, and she was not wholly herself for seconds, and then minutes, and when she had a sense of the world again, he was still licking her, except more slowly, as if with no purpose but to savor her. “I want to go down on you until you pass out.” His lips were so soft against her skin.
“No.” Olive fisted the pillow. “I—you can’t.”
“Why?”
“I have to . . .” She couldn’t think straight, not quite yet. Her mind was addled, stuttering.
She almost screamed when he pushed one finger inside. This time it sank like a rock into water, smooth and without obstacle, and her walls clamped on it as if to welcome Adam and hold him inside.
“Jesus.” He licked her clit again, and she was too sensitive for this. Maybe.
“You are”—he hooked his finger inside her, pressing against the roof of her channel, and the pleasure welled in her, washing against her edges—“so small and tight and warm.”
The heat flooded within her once more, knocked the air out of her lungs, leaving her openmouthed, bright colors bursting behind her eyelids. He groaned something that was not quite coherent, and slid in another finger on the tail end of her orgasm, and the taut stretch of it, it was ruinous. Her body bloomed into something that didn’t belong to her anymore, something made of bright, high peaks and lush valleys. It left her heavy and boneless, and she was not sure how long went by before she could bear to raise her palm to his forehead and gently push him away to get him to stop. He shot her a sullen glance but complied, and Olive tugged him up—because he looked like he might start again any moment, and because it would be nice, to have him next to her. Maybe he was thinking the same: he lifted himself above her, leaning his weight on his forearm; his chest pushed against her breast, one large thigh lodged firmly between her legs.
She was still wearing her stupid knee socks, and God, Adam was probably thinking that she was the lamest lay he’d ever—
“Can I fuck you?”
He said it, and then he kissed her, unconcerned with where his mouth had been just seconds earlier. She wondered if she should be put off by that, but she was still twitching with pleasure, contracting with aftershocks at the memory of what he’d just done. She couldn’t make herself care, and it was nice to kiss him like this. So nice.
“Mmm.” Her palms came up to cup his face, and she began to trace his cheekbones with her thumbs. They were red, and hot. “What?”
“Can I fuck you?” He sucked the base of her throat. “Please?” He breathed it against the shell of her ear, and—it wasn’t as though she could say no. Or wanted to. She nodded her permission and reached for his cock, but he beat her to it and pulled down his pants, closing his fist around it. He was big.
Larger than she’d thought he’d be, than she’d thought anyone could be. She could still feel his heart pounding rapidly against her chest as he aligned himself to her and nudged the head against her opening and—
Olive was lax now. And pliant. And still not loose enough. “Ah.” It didn’t quite hurt, but it was nearly too much. Definitely not easy. And yet, that sensation, the push of him against every part of her, it held a promise.
“You’re so big.”
He groaned into her neck. His entire body was vibrating with tension.
“You can take it.”
“I can,” she told him, voice reedy, and her breath caught halfway through the second word. Women gave birth, after all. Except that he was not in, not really. Not even half. And there was just no more room.
