The taste was the first thing.
The full, layered, undeniable complexity of it—arriving on Mira's tongue with the complete, sensory weight of everything that had happened in this room tonight. Her lips stretched around his cock head, her jaw forced wide to its absolute limit, the stretched, aching quality of cartilage and soft tissue accommodating something her body had not stopped protesting since the first time.
Her eyes were wet.
Not from effort. It was the passive, overflowing quality of eyes that had run out of the ability to hold things in—tear ducts simply spilling because the body had filled past capacity and had nowhere else to put it.
'Mmhnn—~'
The muffled sound moved through her throat. His cock head rested against her tongue with the full, pulsing, post-release warmth of a man who had just finished and had now brought his cock to her face for cleaning—and her tongue was moving.
That was the thing.
The thing she had not given it permission to do.
