Let her try

She doesn’t wait for a real answer. She drops to her knees on the rug in one fluid motion, the firelight catching the curve of her back and the smooth, bare line of her spine. Her hand stays on you, holding you steady, angling you up toward her face. She licks her lips, takes a breath, and leans in.

The first contact is her tongue, flat, warm, dragging slowly up the underside from base to tip. You feel your stomach clench. She swirls once around the head, tasting the precum that’s been leaking for the last ten minutes, and hums softly like she’s confirming something she suspected.

Then she opens her mouth and takes you in.

Her lips stretch around the crown, and immediately you feel the resistance, the tight, wet ring of her mouth struggling to accommodate your girth. She pushes forward, taking maybe half of you before she has to stop, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks. Her eyes flick up to yours, wide and slightly watering, and you can see the concentration on her face as she tries to work her way down.

She pulls back, gasps a breath, and goes again, deeper this time, jaw working, a soft, wet sound escaping her throat. Her hand pumps the base in time with her mouth, covering what she can’t reach. You feel the head of your cock bump the back of her throat, and she gags lightly, pulls back, and tries again.

Behind you, Jean makes a low, appreciative noise. His hand hasn’t stopped moving. “The scale,” he murmurs, half to himself. “She can barely take him. Look at that stretch.”

Lily hears him and it seems to spur her on. She doubles down, bobbing faster, one hand braced on your thigh for balance, saliva slicking down your shaft and over her knuckles. She’s making a mess of it, wet, sloppy, determined, and the sight of her small frame kneeling in front of you, trying and failing and trying again to swallow you whole, is doing something dangerous to your self-control.

She pulls off with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva connecting her lips to the head of your cock, and grins up at you, breathless.

“Okay,” she pants. “So, it doesn’t all fit. Yet.”

You’re still catching your breath, cock slick and aching, when a sweep of white light cuts across the lodge windows, headlights, swinging wide and then straightening as a car pulls into the gravel drive.

“Someone’s here,” you mutter, already moving.

You grab your boxer briefs off the floor and yank them up, then your jeans, hopping one leg in as you stumble toward the door. Behind you, Lily is still on her knees on the rug, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, watching you with a look that’s equal parts amused and disappointed. Jean hasn’t moved at all. He’s still standing there, cock in hand, entirely unbothered by the interruption.

You pull on your shirt just before you open the door and jog out into the rain, the cold hitting you like a wall. The car is parked at the edge of the lot, engine idling, wipers sweeping. You know that car.

Lauren!

She kills the engine as you reach the driver’s side, and the door swings open. She steps out into the rain, hair damp, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and looks up at you with a tired, crooked smile.

“Hey, stranger,” she says. “Storm cut the trip short. Everyone bailed. Figured I’d rather be home.”

You take the bag off her shoulder without a word and steer her toward your private cabin, one hand on the small of her back. She’s talking, something about the drive, about the roads flooding, and you’re nodding along, but half your brain is still back in that lodge, replaying the wet sound of Lily’s mouth and the heat of her thighs.

You get her inside. Door shut. Rain drumming on the roof. She drops her wet jacket on the chair and turns to face you, and that’s when she actually looks at you, gives you a kiss and heads to the bedroom to take a shower.