“I didn’t mean to—” “You didn’t mean to wash away my come like it’s a bad thing?” He sucks on my clit so hard, I almost pass out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Koen, please, you said—” I sob. It’s too much. Too good. Is this what happens when people slowly descend into madness and despair? Is this the feeling? “You said that I can’t come from this.” “You can’t.” He leaves a bite on the tender strip where my thigh and my abdomen meet. I yelp, even though the pain is better than the constant, unbreakable tension. “Then why are you doing it?” “Because unlike you, I can.”
