If she weren't panting, hips rolling with every thrust and lash of his tongue, she would have taken him in hand magically, or rubbed him off with her foot. As it was, she couldn't form a coherent thought to do anything but stroke his hair and whimper his name over and over.

His tongue danced, dipped, filled her, and every time, her moans pitched higher and her arousal coiled tighter, until she couldn't hold on any longer and broke into the sweet, fluting spasms she'd never felt with anyone but him.