⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆✼♡✽⋆∘∙⊱⋅•
Mr. Fairchild's tongue moved slowly and carefully, pressing deep against that sensitive area before dragging back up in a long, lingering lick that sent electric shivers through my body. Then he gently sucked, almost hungrily—on my rim, chasing the sweet omega slick that started to flow the moment his cedar scent wrapped around my own honeyed aroma and refused to let go. I was losing my mind in the best, most exhilarating way possible, fingers tangled tightly in his dark hair, probably pulling some strands out, while my hips jerked forward in little helpless spasms as broken moans escaped me like I'd forgotten how to speak properly.
"You're… you're really doing this?" The words came out high and shaky, a mix of disbelief and desperation, because this was Mr. Fairchild—the guy whose idea of excitement was probably a perfectly organized spreadsheet.
