Fiona choked softly, eyes watering as she took him deeper, the thick weight of him pressing past her lips.
Her throat tightened, but she didn't stop—couldn't. Her mouth was hot, wet, greedy, stretching around his length as he pulsed against her tongue.
Slippery sounds filled the room—raw, messy, needy—as her spit coated him, strings of it trailing down to her chin.
Her hands moved in tandem with her lips, fingers wrapping tightly around his slick shaft, stroking him in quick, hungry motions that matched the rhythm of her mouth.
Each push forward made her moan around him, the vibration of her throat sending shudders up his spine. The heat, the fullness, the overwhelming taste of him—it was too much. And not nearly enough.
As she moved between his legs, her lips wet and parted, she flicked her gaze up now and then—just a glance toward Ser Ira, their injured companion lying quietly nearby. The woman's chest rose and fell in sleep. Safe. Unaware.
