She keeps going

She takes his silence as permission. Her mouth works him steadily, her hand moving in rhythm with her tongue, finding a pace that feels natural. The morning light creeps across the floor, catching the curve of her back, the way her tube top has slipped, the concentration in her half-lidded eyes.

She experiments—pressure here, a slower drag there—learning him through touch and taste. Her free hand rests on his thigh, fingers gripping the muscle as she loses herself in the act, the world narrowing to the weight on her tongue and the sound of his breathing above her.

She doesn't think about Joe. Doesn't think about the kitchen counter she left minutes ago. She thinks about the salt on her lips, the warmth of him, the way her body feels like it's finally doing something honest.

After a long moment, she pulls back, a thin string of saliva connecting her to him. She looks up, her lips slick, her voice rough.

"You taste good."

She says it simply, like a fact, before her hand continues its work, slow and deliberate, watching his face for any sign of what he wants next.