Not at first

Emily's lips touched the head of his cock with barely a breath between them—no kiss, no ceremony. Just contact. Warm, hesitant, lingering. She let them rest there, parted just enough to feel the weight of him against her mouth, to taste the salt of skin, the faint hint of sweat and anticipation.

She wasn’t eager.

Her breath came shallow. Her hands stayed curled at her thighs. There was no fire in the movement—no boldness. Just compliance.

At first.

She parted her lips slowly, drawing him in—inch by inch, just the head at first, then a little deeper. Her tongue moved without thought, brushing the underside instinctively. The stretch was familiar, distant, like remembering a song she hadn’t heard in years. Her jaw ached almost immediately, unused to the strain, but she didn’t stop.

Martin groaned above her, low and rough, his hips still. He let her set the pace, for now.

She told herself she was doing this because she had to.

Because he had leverage.

Because this was the cost of staying quiet, of protecting her job, her reputation, her marriage.

But her body didn’t understand negotiation.

And the more she took of him, the more aware she became of the size—not just the length, which was unremarkable, probably about the same as Jason’s—but the girth. He was thick. Too thick to ignore. Her lips stretched wide just to accommodate him, and the press of him against the inside of her cheeks, the weight of him on her tongue, filled her mouth so completely she could barely breathe around him.

It made everything feel heavier. More intimate. More impossible to pretend away.

The taste of him—hot, sharp, male—hit the back of her throat and something inside her twitched. Her breath shuddered. Her nipples, already swollen, seemed to pulse in time with the slow drag of her tongue. And her thighs—

God.

She clenched them together.

Not because she had to.

Because she felt it.

That weight in her belly again. That pulse deep inside. Her mouth was slick now, lips parted wider, saliva building around him. Her rhythm smoothed without thinking. Her tongue curled tighter. Her breath quickened, not from effort—but from need.

And she hated it.

She hated how her hands moved without order, rising from her thighs to rest against his hips. Not to push him away. To hold him steady.

Martin's hand drifted to her hair—soft at first, fingers threading through, then tightening just enough to make her still. He didn’t **** her deeper. Didn’t thrust. He just held her there.

“You feel that?” he murmured. “That heat in your chest? That drip down your spine?”

Emily made a noise—something between protest and moan, muffled around him.

He chuckled, low and quiet. “That’s not pressure, sweetheart. That’s you.”

And she knew he was right.

Because now her head moved in rhythm. Her mouth welcomed the weight of him. Her tongue danced around every vein and ridge. Her body, flushed and trembling, wasn’t just enduring this—it was craving it.

And she hated how much of her wanted more.