She rocks back and forth, her thighs on either side of his head. They shake beneath the grip he has on them, the meat of her flesh spilling between his fingers as he holds her hard, lets his nails dig into her as she rakes her own through his disheveled hair. Her moans are music, melodious, and his own are baritones, muffled by the heat of her sex, wet and open against his mouth.
He doesn’t touch himself. He never does. Her satisfaction on his tongue is enough, and it flows across his lips, his tongue, drips sweetly down his chin with the eagerness in which he laves between her folds, tongue sliding inside her before takes her clit between his lips. He can’t help but watch her, eyes cast up, intent on taking in the sight of her pleasure as much as he indulges in the taste of it.
She’s beautiful, he thinks, and his hands trail from her thighs upward over impossibly soft skin, holding her at her hips as she starts to come apart.