Page 115 of Seek Me Darling

He doesn’t strip the lingerie off me.

Instead, he drags two fingers beneath the thin strip of lace covering my pussy, hooking the fabric to the side with almost obscene care—because he wants to see me wearing it while he wrecks me.

He drags his thumb lightly across my exposed folds, humming under his breath like he’s already savoring me.

And then he reaches for the bowl.

The one filled with cherry cream cheese filling.

I blink at him, breath hitching as he dips two fingers into the mixture—cool and pale pink, thick and sweet.

“You like it messy,” he murmurs, gaze locked on me. “Don’t you?”

I don’t get the chance to answer.

Because he drops to his knees.

The room feels suddenly too quiet, too heavy.

Then he paints a line of pastry filling across the inside of my thigh—slow, obscenely slow.

The contrast is instant. Cool cream cheese filling on heated skin. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

He leans in, tongue sliding along the trail he made—licking it off like I’m dessert he’s been waiting far too long to taste.

“You taste better than the filling,” he says between licks, voice thick and low, lips brushing against my inner thigh.

I open my mouth, maybe to insult him, maybe to moan, but then he does it again. Another line. Another slow, decadent drag of his tongue that leaves me shaking.

His hands spread my thighs even further, holding me open for him. My lingerie still half-twisted to the side, lace biting into my hips. And then he’s there—mouth on me, tongue parting me, licking into me with slow, devastating precision.

“Fuck,” I whisper, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut as heat floods every inch of my body.

He groans against me, tongue working deeper, slower. Then faster. Like he’s trying to map me from the inside out. Like my pleasure is the only thing that matters.

When he drags two fingers back through the bowl and pushes them inside me—sweet and slick and devastating—I nearly fall back on the counter.

He moves them in and out slowly, curling them perfectly against that spot that makes my whole body tighten.

I move a hand to fist his hair, tugging. “God, Rule—”

“I told you,” he growls against my soaked, swollen clit, “you only like the filling.”

And then he doubles down.

Heeatsme with a desperation that borders on madness. Like he’s starving. Like he’s waitedyearsfor this moment and he’s going tosavor every goddamn second. His tongue flicks over my clit again and again, and when I gasp, he moans into me like my pleasure fuels him.

My thighs clamp around his head and he doesn’t pull away. He grips my hips tighter, anchoring me to his mouth, fucking me with his tongue, grinding his mouth against me like he needs it as much as I do until I’m spiraling.

When I come, it’s not gentle. It’s brutal. Messy.

It rips through me like a detonation—sharp, wild, wrung from someplace deeper than I want to admit exists.

And he doesn’t stop.

He licks me through it, slow and thorough, collecting every drop like it’s owed to him, savoring every broken sound I make.

I’m still gasping when he finally pulls back and stands, his mouth and chin are glistening mess of pastry filling and me.

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