Page 14 of The Spark

I swallowed. My body answered before my mouth could. His eyes sought mine for the answer we both already knew. That I wore itbecauseit belonged to him. I wore it because I wanted to live in it, in him. Because I wanted him to live inside of me.

As if he understood, his eyes dropped to my bare legs—long, stretched out in front of me, warm under his gaze. His hand slid to my thigh. Just resting. Still. But my breath caught.

He noticed. His thumb moved—slow circles, teasing the edge of my shorts. My body responded before my mind could form a thought.

I turned toward him, knees folding. We faced each other, inches apart, breath synced. His fingers skimmed higher, just under the hem of the hoodie, against the soft skin at the crease of my thigh. My lips parted as my pussy thumped between my thighs.

“Please,” he whispered, like a prayer.

I stared at him, heart pounding.

He was kneeling on the rug in front of the couch, hands resting on either side of my thighs, his head bowed like he wasn’t just asking for permission—he was asking forme.

He leaned in, lips brushing my jaw, then lower—dragging heat across the curve of my neck, my shoulder, my collarbone. His mouth moved like he was memorizing me.

His fingers skimmed the hem of my hoodie, tracing the bare skin beneath it, then slipped lower, sliding close to. my panties.

Then he paused and looked at me—eyes dark, searching. Voice almost shaking. “A…”

I didn’t blink. Just nodded. Not fast. Not dramatic.

Justyes.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years.

Then he kissed the inside of my thigh. Soft. Slow. Sacred.

His hands moved with purpose—steady palms pressing my thighs apart, thumbs grazing the crease where softness met heat. My legs opened wider without thought.

He hooked a finger around my panties, dragged them to the side, then paused again.

His fingertips brushed through my wetness, slow and deliberate, and his body shivered.

“Please,” he said again, voice so low and reverent it made my stomach clench. “Let me taste you.”

He kissed me there first.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just a press of lips—tender, aching—on the soft, sensitive skin at my center. Then another. A breath. A groan.

Then he opened me with his hands and flattened his tongue against me.

I gasped.

The first stroke was slow and exploratory. The second deeper. Firmer. His mouth fit to me like it belonged there. My back arched, my head dropped to the cushions, my fingers fisted in the blanket beneath me.

He groaned into my pussy—low and broken—then wrapped his lips around my clit and sucked.

“Amir—” I choked, hips lifting, hands flying to his head.

I could feel the coarse thickness of his hair between my fingers, could feel the way his tongue moved with precision and care, like he’d dreamed of this,practicedthis, like he already knew how to make me fall apart.

And I did. Bit by bit.

“Yes,” I whispered. Again. And again. Until it wasn’t words anymore.

Until it was a moan.

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