Page 19 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Gentle Hands, Rough Tongue
Frankie
The moment my hands wraparound his obsidian horns, something shifts in the air between us. Raphael’s dark eyes lock onto mine, and I see something wild and hungry there.
Before I lose my nerve, I guide his massive head toward the place where I’m already aching for him. His nostrils flare as he breathes me in, and the sound he makes—half growl, half groan—vibrates through my entire body.
“Christ, little bee,” he rumbles against my thigh.
His huge hands slide up under my sweater, spanning my waist completely. The warmth of his palms seeps through me, and I can feel the careful restraint in his touch, like he’s constantly reminding himself not to grip too hard, not to let his strength overwhelm me. But right now, I don’t want his restraint.
“Touch me,” I whisper, using my grip on his horns to pull him closer.
His hands move to my skirt, those thick fingers finding the hem and pushing the fabric up slowly, deliberately. The anticipation is killing me. Every inch of exposed skin feels hypersensitive under his intense gaze.
When he reaches my underwear, he pauses, looking up at me with those dark eyes. “These are in my way.”
Before I can respond, he hooks his thick fingers in the delicate lace and tears them away with one sharp tug. The fabric gives way like tissue paper in his massive hands, and the casual display of strength makes me gasp and clench around nothing.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he growls, tossing the ruined fabric aside. “Now, spread your legs for me.”
I obey without hesitation. His first touch is just a gentle brush of his knuckles against my inner thigh, but it sends goosebumps up my body. He takes his time, stroking and caressing my legs while I stand there trembling, desperate for him to touch me where I need it most.
“Please,” I whisper, and his nostrils flare again.
“I can smell how wet you are,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. “I can practically taste it from here.”
Then he buries his face between my legs, and I nearly collapse from the shock of sensation.
His tongue—God, his tongue—is nothing like what I expected. It’s broad and rough, textured in a way that makes me cry out and grip his horns tighter. The flat width of it covers so much of me at once that I can barely process the intensity. When he dragsit slowly up through my slit, exploring every inch, I actually whimper.
“Raphael,” I gasp, my legs already trembling.
He responds with a rumbling growl that vibrates directly on my clit, making me jerk against his mouth. His massive bull head is positioned perfectly between my thighs, and his thick, soft lips create an incredible seal as he works me with that amazing tongue.
“Fuck, you’re wet,” he growls against me, his lips moving against my pussy as he speaks. “Dripping for me already. I can feel it running down my chin.”
The crude words make my face burn with embarrassment, but I can’t deny it. I’m embarrassingly wet, probably more than I’ve ever been in my life. I can feel it myself—the way I’m practically gushing against his mouth, soaking his muzzle with my arousal.
“I’m sorry,” I start to say, half mortified, but he cuts me off with a fierce growl.
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he snarls, pulling back just enough to look up at me with fire in his eyes. “This is exactly what I want. I want you dripping. I want you so wet you can’t think straight. I want to drown in you.”
When he dives back in, sealing those thick lips around my clit and sucking hard, I cry out so loudly it echoes through the foyer.
His tongue works against me, the texture, the size, the way he can manipulate me so completely… It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Every stroke makes my pussy pulse.
“Oh fuck,” I pant, my hips starting to move against his mouth without my permission. “That’s—God, that’s…” At this point, I can barely speak.
He makes another one of those rumbling sounds, and I feel the vibration all the way through my core. His hands grip my thighs, fingers digging into my flesh as he holds me steady. The way he can control my movements so effortlessly should probably scare me, but instead it just makes me wetter.
I’m completely at his mercy, and we both know it.
He explores me thoroughly, mapping every inch with that incredible tongue. When he finds a particularly sensitive spot, he focuses on it until I’m gasping and shaking, then moves on to discover new ways to make me fall apart.
“God,” he murmurs against me, his breath hot and humid. “I could do this for hours.”
The thought of him keeping me here, spread open and helpless while he devours me for hours, makes my knees go weak. I have to lean more of my weight against his horns to stay upright.
