Chapter 83: Her Taste: My Liberating Tongue and Touch (R-18)

She was already trembling before I even touched her again.

But the second my mouth pressed to her bare, soaked heat—everything

stopped

. Her breath. Her thoughts. Time.

I kissed her slowly at first, just letting my lips rest against her folds, inhaling her scent like it was the last thing I’d ever breathe. Then I opened my mouth and dragged my tongue through her—one long, slow stroke that made her

whimper

like her soul cracked open.

She tasted like sin.

Like surrender.

And I was starving.

Her thighs jerked, trying to close around my head, but my hands gripped her hips and held her wide open, exactly where I wanted her. I wasn’t letting her escape—not when I was just getting started.

I licked her again. And again. Flat tongue, slow pressure, teasing her swollen clit until she gasped, head falling back against the marble wall.

"F-fuck... Pete~~"

I groaned into her. The sound vibrated through her body, and she

shook

.

Then I switched it up—flicking my tongue, fast and light, teasing just the very tip of her clit until her thighs were trembling and her moans were turning into cries.

Her hand slammed against the marble wall behind her, trying to keep balance. The other was buried in my hair, tugging, desperate, needy pressing me. Like she couldn’t decide if she wanted me to stop or

never stop

.

"You’re shaking," I murmured, lips brushing her soaked folds.

She couldn’t even answer. Her chest was rising so fast, every breath sounded like a sob. Her whole body was leaning on me now, like she’d melt into the steam without my mouth holding her together.

So I

dove

back in—tongue working her clit in slow, devastating circles. And when she cried out my name like it was the only word she remembered?

I slipped a finger inside her.

She gasped—back arching, mouth falling open like I’d shocked her system.

She was

so tight

. Hot and dripping and clenching already around just one finger.

I moved it slow—curling it up and in, learning every reaction. Every gasp. Every time her hips bucked or her legs shook, I adjusted—just to see how far I could push her.

Then I slid in a second finger.

Her legs

gave out

.

I caught her easily, pressing her against the wall as I kept her open with my hand, fucking her slow while my tongue worked her clit with steady, brutal care.

Wet. Messy. Perfect.

She was moaning without shame now—no control left. Just a raw, broken series of gasps and cries, her hips rolling down into my mouth like she needed more.

Deeper

.

Harder

.

So I gave it to her.

Fingers curling and pumping, tongue stroking and circling, sucking her clit into my mouth until she was writhing.

"Pete—

ohmygod

—I can’t— I’m gonna—"

I didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. I

wanted

her to fall apart.

And she did.

She came with a cry so loud it echoed off the walls. Her thighs clenched around my head, her hips jerking forward, fingers yanking my hair like she needed something—

anything

—to hold onto while her body shattered in my hands.

I held her through it. Every tremor. Every whimper. Every broken breath.

And even after she came, I didn’t move.

I stayed there—kissing her softly, gently, letting her feel me even through the aftershocks.

When I finally looked up, her eyes were glassy. Lips parted. Her whole body was flushed and glistening, like she’d just lived through something holy.

I stood slowly, letting my hands glide up her body again—palms tracing over her waist, her stomach, her trembling ribs.

Then I cupped her face, kissed her forehead, and whispered:

"Now...

now

I’m gonna take you."

I didn’t ask. I didn’t speak. I just grabbed her wrist and turned, pulling her toward the fogged-up vanity like I owned her.

Steam curled around us like smoke from a wildfire—hot, thick, and humming with tension. Her breath caught, shallow and shaky, chest rising in short bursts like she wasn’t sure if this was happening. But her body? Her body knew.

The mirror in front of us was nothing but blur and heat—a ghost image of the chaos behind it—until I pressed my palm to the center and dragged it down, slow and deliberate, like I was carving truth into glass.

"There," I said, voice low and thick against the shell of her ear. "Look."

Her eyes met mine in the mirror. Wide. Glazed. Stripped bare in more ways than one. Her lips trembled, parted like she wanted to say something but didn’t have the words. Her soaked hair clung to her collarbone. Her panties—the last thread of modesty—were glued to her skin, trembling like the rest of her.

I stepped in, chest pressed to her back, arm tight around her waist like a tether keeping her grounded. My other hand slid down—slow, reverent—brushing along her hip with fingers that already knew what she needed before she did.

"You see her?" I whispered. "That’s the woman no one’s ever truly touched. The one you hide. But I’m not just gonna touch her..." I kissed her neck, lips dragging hot against damp skin. "I’m gonna worship her."

"Peter..." she breathed, voice cracking like the last defense was already falling apart.

I didn’t rush. I let my hand ghost along the edge of her pussy, teasing her with the pressure of fingers that pulsed warmth into her skin—like even my touch had a will of its own. She tensed... then melted. Her legs parted ever so slightly, like instinct had taken the wheel.

My fingers dipped just beneath the edge of labia—trailing her heat, not taking—just grazing, exploring, circling the wet fabric where she pulsed hardest. She bucked once. Quiet. Sharp. But she didn’t pull away.

And I didn’t dive in.

I let her feel what anticipation could do—what it meant to be truly seen, truly

wanted

, and

held

without being devoured right away.

"Ah—P-Peter... please..."

Her whisper was a tremble. A plea coated in velvet.

I pressed my lips to the corner of her mouth as my fingers finally slid deeper—slow, firm, curling in. Her body jerked. Her knees wobbled.

And when I found her center—slick, hot, and pulsing—I knew her whole world shifted.

"Oh my

God

—"

She moaned, forehead pressing to the mirror as my fingers worked her from behind, slow but precise, curling into her like I was trying to reach her soul. Every stroke made her gasp. Every twist made her beg.

"This," I whispered, tongue brushing her earlobe, "is what it feels like to be ruined right."

She cried out again, breath fogging up the glass she stared into. I could see her reflection—face twisted in raw ecstasy, body shaking, thighs clenching around my hand like she couldn’t stand the feeling but never wanted it to stop.

And the best part?

She still clinging to her desires like a memory of restraint that was already unraveling.