Not on your life

It happened in a blur.

One second she was moaning into his mouth, chest bare, jeans tangled around her ankles, panties the only scrap of modesty left—

—and then they weren’t.

Because his hands—hot, strong, decisive—grabbed the sides of her panties and ripped.

Not slid down. Not tugged gently.

Ripped.

The sound tore through the air like a whipcrack—cotton shredding, elastic snapping, the sudden bite of fabric parting against her thighs. It shocked her. Stole her breath. Her knees buckled slightly from the jolt of it.

But not from fear.

From arousal.

Something about the way he did it—without asking, without pausing, like he owned that moment—made her body clench hard. Heat flushed through her chest and belly. Her breath caught, and a moan escaped her lips without her even realizing it.

He dropped the ruined fabric somewhere behind him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

Quick. Purposeful. Worshipful.

And with one smooth motion, he lifted one of her feet, peeled off her sneaker, then the other—leaving her standing barefoot, jeans puddled at her ankles, everythig else stripped away in the dark heat of the closet.

Then he grabbed the jeans, bunched at her feet, and pulled them away completely.

Now she was bare.

****.

Soaking.

And he didn’t hesitate.

He leaned forward—and devoured her.

No slow kiss. No teasing lick.

His mouth found her pussy in one rough, hungry motion, tongue flattening and pressing deep between her folds like a man starved.

Emily’s head hit the wall with a thump.

Her legs shook.

He didn’t lick around her. He didn’t dance at the edges. He dove in, tongue sliding up and down, thick and hot, every motion slick with spit and need. He groaned into her cunt, the sound vibrating straight through her hips.

She cried out—sharp, ragged.

Outside the closet, someone whooped.

He kept going.

His tongue circled her clit—then flicked it. Then again. Then again. Faster. Rougher. Like he knew what she needed. Like he was chasing something. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the plush of her hips to hold her in place.

And then—God—he sucked.

He sucked her clit into his mouth and sucked.

Emily screamed, "Fuck! Yes, keep doing—Fuck!"

She didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan to. It just happened. Her whole body jolted, her thighs clamped around his head, her knees buckled, and she came—fast, hard, messy. Her orgasm slammed through her with such **** she nearly slid down the wall.

She sagged, gasping, thighs trembling, hands scraping for something to hold.

Her mind blanked.

Nothing but heat. Pulsing. Wetness. His mouth still moving softly as her climax throbbed its way out of her in waves.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t speak.

Just kissed her inner thighs, soft, wet trails, like worship. Like he hadn’t just wrecked her.

And she—still panting, still dazed—knew she wasn’t done yet.