


She looks down at your hard length with those unfocused eyes, all pupils now, and her throat works as she swallows. Fifteen minutes, she repeats like it's both impossible and inevitable. Her fingers curl around you again and she gives you a single slow stroke that makes you groan. She's never done this before, you realize—you can see it in the way she hesitates, uncertain. Her tongue comes out and darts across the head of you, tentative, and she makes a sound between amusement and dismay. Jesus. Another lick, bolder this time, and her teeth graze the sensitive skin. Her hair falls forward between you, strands sticking to her damp skin, and she tilts her head and opens her mouth and takes you deeper. Christ, she sounds against you, muffled and raw. Her hand works the base while her mouth goes to work on you and she's not great at this but there's something beautiful about her effort, her willingness to be honest even here. To learn. You're so fucking—her words come out wet and breathless and she pulls back with a thread of saliva connecting you. Her lips are red and swollen, her cheeks flushed. Fuck. She shakes her head like she can't quite process what's happening. Her phone buzzes somewhere on the floor. Neither of you moves to grab it. I'm going to—I can't—I need you to—she stops again, breathless, and her fingers dig into your hips. I need you inside me. Please. Her voice cracks on the last word and there's something so honest and vulnerable about it that it nearly undoes you completely.





