Page 20 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
When he finds my clit with the tip of that rough tongue and circles it deliberately, slowly, I actually see stars. My grip on his horns tightens, and I use them to pull him exactly where I need him.
“Right there,” I gasp. “Please, right there.”
“Here?” He flicks his tongue, and I nearly scream.
“Yes! Oh God, yes.”
He settles into a rhythm then, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on my clit. He builds me up slowly, methodically, like he’s studying my responses and cataloging exactly what makes me fall apart.
Every time I think I’m about to come undone, he pulls back just enough to keep me on the edge. I realize he’s doing it on purpose—keeping me desperate and aching while he learns my body.
“Please,” I whimper, tugging on his horns. “Please, I need—”
“What do you need, sweet thing?” His voice is muffled against my pussy, the vibration making me jerk.
“I need to come,” I admit, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and arousal. “Please make me come. I can’t—I can’t take much more.”
“Since you asked so nicely…”
He seals his lips around my clit and sucks hard while flicking it with the tip of his tongue. The combination of sensations is too much. The rough texture, the perfect pressure, the way his lips create that incredible suction…
The orgasm builds fast and hits me like lightning. My entire body goes rigid as pleasure crashes over me in waves. I scream his name as I convulse against his mouth, my grip on his horns the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
But just as my legs give out completely, his hands are there. He grips my ass and thighs, supporting my full weight effortlessly while I’m still coming.
“That’s it,” he says. “Let me have all of it.”
He holds me up like I’m weightless while continuing to work me with his tongue, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until I’m gasping and shaking in his grip.
“Raphael, I can’t—it’s too much—”
But he doesn’t stop. If anything, the helpless sounds I’m making seem to encourage him. His grip on me tightens, and he redoubles his efforts, that thick tongue working against my oversensitive flesh with relentless precision.
“One more,” he growls against me, the vibration making me jerk in his grip. “Give me one more.”
I want to protest that I can’t, that it’s impossible, but my body is already responding to his command. Being held up like this while he devours me… Something about it pushes me toward a second peak faster than I thought possible.
The buildup is different this time—more intense, more desperate. I’m sensitive from the first orgasm, and every stroke of his tongue feels magnified. When he focuses on my clit again, working it with that rough tongue while his thick lips create perfect suction, I know I’m going to fall apart completely.
“I can’t—oh God—I’m going to—”
The second orgasm hits even harder than the first. My entire body goes rigid in his grip, every muscle clenching as the pleasure tears through me. I shrink into myself, my grip on his horns so tight my knuckles go white as a sharp gasp tears from my throat.
Wave after wave of sensation crashes over me, and all I can do is hold on and let him work me through it. He doesn’t let up, continuing to lap at me with gentle strokes until the last tremor fades and I’m left boneless and shaking in his grip.
Finally, he pulls back and lifts me up in his arms, taking several strides until we’re in his living room. There, he carefully lowers me to the couch. My legs are like jelly, and I collapse against the cushions with a soft sigh. He disappears for a moment, and when he returns, he’s carrying a glass of water and a soft throw blanket. His muzzle is still wet with my arousal, and the sight makes my core clench weakly.
“Drink,” he says softly, settling beside me on the couch and wrapping the blanket around my shoulders.
I take the glass with trembling hands, grateful for something to focus on while I try to process what just happened. The cool water helps clear some of the fog from my brain, though I’m still floating in post-orgasmic bliss.
“Better?” he asks, reaching out to stroke my hair back from my face.
I nod, still not entirely trusting my voice. His touch is so gentle now, such a contrast to the intensity of what we just shared. It’s hard to reconcile this tender care with the dominant way he just took me apart with his mouth.
“You’re staring,” he observes, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Sorry. I’m just…” I trail off, not sure how to put it into words. “You’re different than I expected.”
