jaz ⋆˚࿔

You stretch now, half-heartedly, and the soreness reasserts itself with a wince. You hiss through your teeth quietly.

Spencer is still asleep, one arm slung across your stomach, face buried against your shoulder. His hair is a halo of tangles, his breath steady and warm against your skin. He smells like his usual bergamot soap mixed with sleep and sweat and sex.

You think to yourself that it should be illegal to look that peaceful after doing what the two of you did last night.

Your fingers twitch, tempted to wake him just to say so.

But you don’t have to. A beat later, he shifts — just enough to murmur something soft and incoherent against your shoulder blade and press his nose to your skin.

“Mm,” he hums, a little more awake now. “You’re warm.”

“So are you.” You blink your eyes open and glance over your shoulder back at him. You move again, trying to sit up, and this time the soreness flashes sharp.

Spencer lifts his head and blinks blearily at you. His hair is in his eyes, and he looks younger like this, all sleepy and soft. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say, even though your hips are definitely plotting a day of revenge. “Just a little sore.”

He smiles like he was expecting that answer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He hums, amused. “Where?”

You give him a look. “Where do you think?”

Spencer grins fully now, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he kisses your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You scoff, but it’s breathless. “Cocky.”

“Confident,” he counters, smug. His hand moves, gliding down your side, dragging the sheet with it. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“No,” you admit. “But I am going to be walking funny all day.”

He tucks his face back into the curve of your neck, voice low and scratchy with sleep. “That’s my favorite kind of damage.”

You laugh, but your eyes flutter shut again as he moves over you and rolls you onto your back. He kisses down your collarbone, a little lower, then lower still. His hand spreads over your stomach like he’s staking a claim, and his mouth follows suit.

“Spence,” you warn gently, though your voice is already going soft around the edges. “You don’t have to.”

“I’m aware of that. I want to.”

You lift your head to look at him. He’s already halfway down the bed, nosing at your hip, lips brushing skin. He glances up at you, hair falling in his eyes, smile lazily forming.

He presses a kiss just below your navel.

“Besides, breakfast,” he says, licking his lips with shameless smugness, “is the most important meal of the day.”

Another kiss, lower.

“And I very much like the taste of you in the morning,” he says, and the grin that follows is pure sin — cocky and sleepy and devastatingly pretty.

There’s no room to argue, not when he’s already mouthing down your thigh, parting your legs like it’s second nature, like this was inevitable from the moment you woke up. His fingers curl under your knees, coaxing you open even further, and he breathes in against your skin.

You brace a hand against the sheets, the other sliding aimlessly into the tangled mess of his hair. “Spencer…”

“Shh.” He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me make it better. You said you’re sore.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to—”

“I know what it means,” he says, firmer this time. His voice drops low, smooth and certain. “It means you let me wreck you last night, and now I get to take care of what’s mine.”

That word lands hard, curls low in your belly. You don’t answer — you can’t. You’re too busy trying to steady your breathing. He’s already shifting closer, already locking an arm under your thighs to hold you in place.

You feel the brush of his mouth where you’re still tender and already aching again, and the first drag of his tongue is slow and deliberate.

“So sweet,” he hums softly against you. “You know the average person has up to 10,000 taste buds?” He glances up, breath hot against your skin. “Pretty sure mine were made just for you.”

You squirm involuntarily — too sensitive, too much, too soon — but his grip tightens just slightly, pinning your thighs down with practiced ease. His fingers splay against your hips. You’re not going anywhere.

“Stay still for me, angel,” he murmurs, voice warm and unbearably soft, challenging you to complete an impossible task.

You try. God, you try. But he knows your body too well by now. He knows exactly how to curl his tongue just right, how to flatten it where you’re already throbbing — like he’s learning your body the way he learns languages, through repetition and obsession. Like it’s the only fluency that ever really mattered. He moves with a rhythm designed to undo you molecule by molecule, like you’re his favorite unsolved equation.

“That’s it,” he says against your skin when your thighs start to tremble. “God, you’re so soft like this.”

He noses deeper, then closes his mouth around your clit and sucks, and your entire spine arches off the bed.

“Spence—”

“I’ve got you,” he soothes, licking back up, hand sliding to your stomach to press you down with gentle, unrelenting pressure.

You squirm again, and he catches your movement immediately.

“I said stay still,” he warns, low and firm. You whimper, and he smiles against you.

He shifts one arm to slip a hand beneath you, fingers curving under your ass to tilt your hips higher, and when he sinks his mouth back down and—fuck. Your whole body jerks.

“Too much?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, breathless. “N-no. Feels good.”

“I know it does, angel girl.”

It’s not fair, the way he’s still so vocal even with his mouth buried in your cunt — praises every breathless twitch of your hips like it’s a gift, worships every sound you make with a reverence that borders on unbearable. His tongue moves like he’s memorizing you, like he’s been starving, like this is the only thing he knows how to do anymore.

He tightens his grip again and devours you, slower this time, deeper, and you come like that — spread out and trembling, jaw slack, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets. Breaths leave you in broken gasps, and still, he doesn’t stop — licking you through it, slow and thorough, like he’s savoring every drop.

You expect him to pull back once your breathing slows.

He doesn’t.

Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he just presses them wider with maddening ease — like your body belongs under his hands. Like he’s barely getting started.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, voice rasping with satisfaction. “Not done yet.”

“Spence—” It’s barely even a protest. More like a warning, and he knows the difference. Knows the way your hips buck even as you pretend you can’t take more. Knows that the shaky whine in your throat means please, not stop. Knows you too well to listen when your mouth lies and your body begs.

“You can take it,” he whispers, tongue hot and sure. “You’re gonna give me one more, sweet girl. Yeah?”

You try to argue, but then his tongue flicks just right — again, and again, and again — and your spine bows like a live wire. You nod helplessly.

“You taste so good,” he breathes. “Don’t make me beg. One more, angel.”

He holds you down, murmuring praise between licks, talking you through it in a voice that’s simultaneously achingly tender and overwhelmingly filthy, and you feel yourself unraveling all over again. Your thighs tremble, heels digging into the mattress, and he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re gasping his name on a broken sob, not until your second orgasm rips through you with twice the force, leaving you wrecked and open and shaking.

Only then — when you’re boneless and panting and whimpering beneath him — does he finally ease up. His mouth slows. Softens. Presses one last kiss to your overstimulated skin.

He looks up at you, flushed and glistening and smug, but his eyes are all warmth.

“Good girl,” he says, kissing your thigh again. Then again, higher. “So sweet like this.”

You can barely manage a breath, let alone a sentence.

He grins, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pushes your trembling legs gently back together, palms smoothing over your skin like he can’t quite stop touching you. He crawls back up the bed, gaze sweet and tender, and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw, then your collarbone, then your shoulder.

“Hi,” you finally manage, dazed.

He huffs a soft laugh, leaning over you to press a kiss to your forehead. “Hi.”

You blink up at him, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The quiet hums, warm and full.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, still in a bit of a trance. “Yeah. Yeah, just…”

“Wrecked?” he teases, brushing a knuckle down your cheek.

You roll your eyes in faux annoyance. “Completely.”

He smiles and settles beside you, and you curl into him instinctively.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mumble.

“I know. I already told you, I wanted to.”

Your cheeks warm. “Still doesn’t count as a real breakfast.”

Spencer grins. “Speak for yourself. I’m full.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

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