Page 109 of Beneath the Desert Bloom
She leaned down and kissed the hollow of his throat.
Then his chest.
Then lower.
He lay back into the dirt as she moved downward, trailing her tongue across his sternum, over the glowing marks that threaded his ribs, down to his belly.
He tasted like sage and ash and desert sunlight.
When she reached the base of his cock, she paused.
His breath caught.
“I want to taste you,” she whispered.
And she did.
She opened her mouth and licked up the underside of him, slow, reverent, letting the ridges of his shaft drag across her tongue. His body shuddered. One of his hands gripped the earth. The other fisted in her hair. She took him deeper, lips stretching,tongue swirling, and when he groaned—deep, helpless, near-wild—the wind stirred again.
The petals fell faster.
The desert watched.
And it wanted.
He was already groaning when she pulled off him, her mouth slick with his taste, her chest heaving. His cock gleamed in the dying light, saliva catching in the ridges along the underside. He looked ruined already. His thighs were trembling. His hand was still fisted in her hair like he couldn’t let go or he’d fall apart.
“Please,” he rasped, voice broken open, deep and desperate. “Please, Nora…”
She moved like she’d been built for this.
Like the land had reshaped her for it.
She rose, slowly crawling back over his massive frame. Her thighs bracketed his hips, slick and sticky. She sat over his cock, the heat of it pressed against her slit, her breath spilling across him.
He stared up at her like a man at prayer.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “Everywhere.”
Tentatively, his massive hands rose and settled on her hips. His palms were hot. His grip trembled. He dragged them up, over her waist, ribs, until his thumbs brushed the undersides of her breasts.
She arched into it.
A little noise broke from her throat.
He cupped her fully, rough fingers curling around her curves, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked, her whole body bowing like he’d pulled the string too tight.
“You glow,” he murmured.
“You do too,” she whispered back.
He leaned forward and kissed one nipple, slow and deliberate, and when his rough tongue flicked against it, her hips jolted forward.
She ground against his cock, the friction obscene, soaked, perfect.
“I need—” she started.
“I know.”
