[ She can feel that muffled moan between her legs, and yeah, that's answer enough — words seem beside the point now anyway. Words were for that dirty back alley with a half-empty can of beer shared between them. This is something else. This is communion. And his mouth brings her nerves to life just as well as beating men bloody in the arena did. Maybe a little better. She can't tell if it's skill or just earnest eagerness, but she's wet enough that the distinction really doesn't matter. Technique is a minor detail when she's grinding against his mouth like that anyway, each rock of her hips relentless and deliberate.
Maybe it's not what she intended when she first kneeled over him, but she might just ride his face all the fucking way home. ]
That's it, Harry. [ Praise, low and breathless — a counterpoint to her fingers still tightly twisted in his hair. ] Good boy.
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Maybe it's not what she intended when she first kneeled over him, but she might just ride his face all the fucking way home. ]
That's it, Harry. [ Praise, low and breathless — a counterpoint to her fingers still tightly twisted in his hair. ] Good boy.