Lick her to climax

With a slow, deliberate movement, you finish what she has started, pulling the silk cord free and parting the indigo fabric. The yukata falls away from her shoulders, pooling around her elbows and baring her skin to the cool night air. In the soft, filtered moonlight, she looks like a vision of porcelain and shadow. Her breath hitches as your gaze sweeps over her, her chest rising and falling in a quick, shallow rhythm that betrays her mounting anticipation.

"Beautiful," you say, voicing what's in your min.

You lower your head, your lips first grazing the slope of her collarbone before traveling downward. When your tongue flicks against the sensitive peak of her breast, Kurenai lets out a low, melodic moan, her back arching off the futon instinctively. The sound is raw and unfiltered, a far cry from the composed woman she presents to the world. As you take her into your mouth, the warmth and pressure of your tongue swirling against her, her fingers dig into your shoulders, her nails pressing into your skin as she grounds herself against the sheer intensity of the sensation.

The room seems to shrink until there is nothing left but the sound of her jagged breathing and the wet, rhythmic heat of your mouth against her skin. She is incredibly responsive, her body trembling beneath you as you move from one side to the other, tasting and teasing her with a slow, deliberate hunger. Kurenai’s head thrashes lightly against the pillow, her eyes squeezed shut as a flush spreads across her chest and neck.

"Please," she gasps, her voice breaking as she pulls your head closer, her hips beginning to shift restlessly against yours. The vulnerability from earlier has been entirely replaced by a ****, driving need.

Then you go down on her pussy, and lick it.

The rhythmic pressure of your tongue becomes more insistent, focusing entirely on the hypersensitive center of her pleasure. Kurenai’s composure is a distant memory; her head thrashes from side to side against the pillow, her dark hair fanning out like a silken web in the moonlight. Every time your tongue swirls against her, she lets out a sharp, broken cry that echoes in the quiet room. Her hips begin to rise and fall in a frantic, involuntary search for more friction, her heels digging into the futon as the tension in her body coils tighter and tighter.

You don't slow down, sensing the shift in her breathing as it turns into a series of short, hitching gasps. The scent of her arousal is intoxicating, fueling your own drive to see her break. Her hands move from your hair to the sheets, bunching the fabric in her fists as she arches her back, her skin flushed and shimmering with a light sweat. She is right on the precipice, her voice reduced to a low, **** chant of your name, her thighs trembling violently against your shoulders.

Then, with one final, deliberate flick of your tongue, she goes rigid. A long, strangled moan escapes her lips as the first wave of her climax hits, her internal muscles pulsing rhythmically against you. She seems to hover there for an eternity, suspended in the peak of her release, before her body finally softens, falling back into the bedding with a heavy, boneless grace. Her breath comes in long, shuddering sobs of relief, the sheer intensity of the sensation leaving her dazed and wide-eyed.

She stays still for a long moment, the only sound in the room her slowing heartbeat and the distant rustle of the wind outside. Slowly, she reaches down, her fingers trembling as she touches your shoulder, wordlessly urging you back up to her level.