Page 18 of Drowned By the Dreadnought

She curls her fingers into the towels and watches with nervous, hungry eyes. I rise and unbutton my trousers. She swallows and dips her eyes down my body. I unzip, hook my thumbs under the waistband of my pants and underwear, and push the wet fabric down my legs before kicking them away and shucking off my socks.

Despite her thick pheromones perfuming the air, the wetness coating her inner thighs, the flush on her cheeks, and the flare of interest in her eyes, she pulls the towel around herself and scoots away in fear.

I grab her ankle and yank her to me until her knees part around my hips. She squeaks and abandons the towel to push at my stomach. The feel of her soft, dainty hands on me nearly sends me into rut.

I gather her wrists in one hand and pin them over her head.

“Be still and let me enjoy my feast, little mouse,” I snarl before ducking down and licking her collarbone.

She wriggles, searching for an escape, but finds none. I trace up the side of her throat with my tongue and nibble at her ear until she gasps, then dive into her open mouth. She submits with such grace my soul aches.

I will never forgive myself for mistreating her.

When the kiss turns deep and sensual, I pull away and nip her chin before trailing down the other side of her throat.

I continue over her collarbone to her sternum.

“Wait, Russt, I—oh gods, I—”

Her back bows and she emits the sexiest little gasp as I swirl my tongue over and around her nipple before filling my mouth with her breast and laving the hard peak with the flat of my tongue.

Needing more, I move to her other breast and give it the same treatment. She writhes and digs her nails into my knuckles. I shift my grip on her wrists, giving her more wriggle room. She holds onto me as though I’m her lifeline.

She honors me. I don’t deserve her.

But fuck if I can hold back another moment.

I pull back until her nipple pops free of my mouth, then lick, nip, and nuzzle my way down her stomach to the juncture of her thighs. At the first taste of her slick, I lose my composure.

Her scream bounces off the walls as I drop to my knees, wrap her legs around my shoulders, and consume every inch of her. I suck each of her labia into my mouth, run the flat of my tongue up her entrance, circle her clit, and reach over her hip to part her folds with my fingers.

Pink, wet, and perfect.

I spear my tongue into her, fill my hand with her breast, and moan. Her frantic fingers tug at my hair. I lap, scoop, and stroke. Tease, suck, and nip. Nibble and coax. Growl and demand.

Her thighs squeeze my head.

I flick the pad of my thumb directly over her clit. She explodes. I seal my mouth over her entrance and consume every drop of fresh slick gushing from her core.

For several long, delicious moments, she orgasms on my tongue. Her legs mash my face harder against her sex. I can’t breathe.

I’ll die a happy male. Oxygen is overrated. Her slick is so much better.

When she flops against the table and heaves as though she ran a marathon, I smile against her folds and wriggle my thumb against her clithood.

She stiffens and lifts her head to peer down at me.

“I can’t, Russt.”

I chuckle. She nearly jackknifes off the table.

“You can and you will, little mouse. We’ve barely begun.”

She pushes my forehead and whines, “I don’t think I can survive more.”

“You’ll be begging for more in a few minutes,” I promise.

She stops and huffs a watery laugh.

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