Page 16 of Owned In Misty Mountain

He sounds possessed.

And I love it.

I want to tell him I’ve never felt anything like this.

That I didn’t know it could feel this good.

But the words won’t come.

Because his tongue is working magic—circling, flicking, flattening against my clit, pushing past the entrance of my pussy—and my thighs are trembling so hard I don’t know how I’m still standing.

Then he presses a single finger against my throbbing opening—just barely—and I whimper so loud I’m embarrassed.

But he looks up at me, eyes burning, beard wet with me, and growls, “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

He slides that one long, thick finger inside me—slow, careful, but so big—and I cry out.

It’s not pain.

It’s too much.

Stretching, burning, pressure I’ve never felt.

But he doesn’t stop.

He strokes me inside with the same rhythm his tongue works my clit—slow, filthy, relentless.

“I’m gonna break you open,” he whispers. “Gonna make this tight virgin pussy mine.”

I shatter.

Right there.

Against the bookshelf.

His name on my lips.

My soul in pieces.

I come hard—legs shaking, thighs clamping around his head, hands gripping his shoulders like they’re the only things keeping me together.

And he keeps licking. Keeps worshiping me like I didn’t just fall apart in front of him.

When I finally slump down, boneless and breathless, he catches me.

Cradles me against his chest like I’m something precious.

Like I didn’t just come all over his face in a public building.

“You good?” he murmurs against my hair.

I nod. I don’t even try to speak.

Because I already know what’s coming next.

And I want it.

All of it.

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