𝕮𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖊 𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝕴𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖘

Waking Her Up | M.H.

[Smut]

The morning light filtered through the curtains in thin, warm stripes, brushing over the sheets and the scattered clothes from the night before. Your muscles ached pleasantly, a deep soreness that reminded you exactly how hard you and Maria had gone in the shower. Every time you shifted, the memory flashed back in your fingertips, your thighs, your mouth.

You woke slowly, consciousness crawling upward through a haze of warmth. The heat of the blankets. The smell of skin and shampoo. The steady breathing beside you.

Maria lay on her back, one leg thrown lazily over the sheets, the other bent slightly underneath her. Her dark hair spilled in loose waves across the pillow, a small messy halo around her head. Her bare back rose and fell in slow, even breaths, the muscles beneath her skin relaxed in sleep. But what drew your eyes—what always drew your eyes—was the curve of her hips leading to the dark, thin pair of panties clinging softly to her.

For a while, you just watched her. The way her shoulders moved faintly when she exhaled. The small, content weight of her body pressing into the mattress. The full peace on her face—something she rarely allowed herself during the day.

And then your gaze slid back to her hips. Her legs. The shape beneath the thin fabric.

The warmth in your stomach shifted lower, heavier.

You moved very slowly, careful not to jostle the bed too much, and slipped down closer to her hips. You rested on your elbows, your chest pressed to the mattress, your face hovering just above her thighs.

Her thighs were still soft with the leftover heat of sleep. You breathed her in quietly, letting your nose brush the inside of her leg. She didn't stir. Not yet.

Your hands slid up her thighs, gently spreading them just a bit wider. She made a soft, muffled sound in her sleep, but didn't wake. You smiled at the sound—it was the exact noise she made when stretching in the mornings, small and warm and unguarded.

You leaned in and kissed her left thigh. Then her right.
Slow. Soft. Unhurried.

Nothing more than your lips.
Just light pressure and breath.

Then you pressed your mouth to the center of the panties—right over her pussy.

Her breath hitched faintly, but she didn't wake. Not fully. Her hips twitched once, small, instinctive.

You exhaled through your nose, letting your breath warm the dampening fabric. Then you kissed her again, firmer this time, letting your lips mold to the shape of her through the panties.

She exhaled sharply in her sleep.

You did it again—slow kisses, then gentle, drawn-out ones that lingered. The fabric grew warmer, moist with heat. Every time your mouth moved, she reacted softly: a quiet sound, a tiny shift of her hips, fingers curling loosely into the pillow beside her.

You slid your hands up her waist, smoothing your palms over her sides, feeling the relaxed warmth of her body. You kissed her through the panties again, this time running your tongue along the fabric, letting the taste of her seep through.

Her legs tensed for a moment.
A sigh escaped her.
She murmured something into the pillow—too quiet to understand.

You kissed her again—slow, deep pressure of your mouth tracing the outline of her clit through the thin lace. Her breath caught. Not quite awake. But stirring now, shifting closer to awareness.

You slid one hand to the waistband of the panties, your fingers brushing her skin lightly.

Her hips arched faintly.
Not waking—just responding.