Friends

Chapter 64

A/N: The Book is FINISHED! Read the entirety of it on my Patreon along with other exclusive content if you want to check those out!

Marc's POV:

I've dreamed of this moment since the day we met.

Back when all I had were fragments of her. Glimpses in the hallway. Hushed giggles through thin walls. The sound of her moaning while she was with Kendrick while I laid in bed, fantasizing about it being with me instead.

And now?

Now those moans are for me.

I take my time kissing down her body, savoring every inch like it's a reward. Her skin is warm and soft beneath my lips, and when I finally reach her thighs, I slow down even more. I want to memorize the way she tastes, the way she trembles, the way her legs twitch when I kiss the sensitive spots between her thighs

She's already breathing heavier.

I can hear it—feel it—see it in the way her fingers grip the fabric of the couch, like she's bracing for what's coming.

And I haven't even touched her yet.

Not really.

I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, then another, just a little closer to where she wants me.

She lets out a shaky breath, her hips rising instinctively.

"Please, baby" she pleads.

But I don't give her what she wants.

Not yet.

She's moaning already, soft and pleading, and it's making me even harder.

It's hard to explain but there's power in worshipping her. Worshipping every crevice of her body while she's under me, breathless, legs already trembling—and I haven't even given her what she's begging for. That kind of hunger? That kind of need? It's intoxicating.

Not because she's submissive. Because she wants me. Needs me. She's in the palm of my hand.

And that kind of power doesn't come from dominance—it comes from desire. Real, raw, aching desire.

This—her under me like this, desperate and wordless, offering herself up without hesitation—is everything I've ever needed.

And I'm not about to waste it.

I graze my tongue just along the edge, tracing her pussy, not quite diving in.

I look up and then I see it.

She's looking down at me.

Eyes wide, dazed, locked on mine.

And it's not just lust in her gaze—it's need. That desperate, pleading kind of need that speaks louder than words ever could.

She's begging me with her eyes.

Begging me to stop teasing. To stop hovering. To take her.

That's all it takes.

That look.

That silent, burning please.

It flips a switch in me.

"Beg for it," I demand.

"Please, daddy, please, I need you," she instantly, without hesitation, obeys.

I grab her thighs, spreading them just a little wider, anchoring her down like she might try to float away. Then I bury my face between her legs—finally giving her what she's been begging for with every twitch, every moan, every breathless plea.

I press my tongue flat and wide against her, starting from the bottom and slowly dragging upward. I take my time, tracing along her inner lips, pausing at her entrance just long enough to taste her, then continuing until I reach her clit.

There, I pause—tongue-kissing it gently. Swirling. Circling. Savoring. Each kiss is deliberate. Each flick of my tongue is purposeful.

Then I dip back down, tasting her fully, letting her sweetness coat my mouth. She's dripping for me—soaking. I lap it up like it's holy.

When I make my way back to her clit, I seal my lips around it, applying just the right amount of suction. At the same time, I slide my middle finger into her—slow and controlled.

She gasps as I enter her, her hips lifting instinctively, her thighs trembling in my hands.

I search for that perfect spot.

When I find it, I begin to massage it—small, tight circles—counterclockwise. All while my tongue matches the rhythm, swirling around her clit in the same motion.

It's precise. It's intentional. It's art. Each stroke of my finger synced perfectly with each flick of my tongue. As if her body is the instrument, and I've spent years learning how to play it.

And by the way she's arching, moaning, unraveling beneath me—I know I'm hitting every note just right.

I keep the rhythm steady at first—slow, patient circles with my finger as my tongue mirrors the movement on her clit. But then, little by little, I start to build speed. A little faster. A little deeper.

I glance up at her.

God.

Her head is tilted back, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut like she's trying to survive the waves crashing through her body. But I don't want her surviving me.

I want her feeling me.

Seeing me.

I watch the way her stomach flutters with each breath, how her hands clutch the fabric beneath her like she's holding on for dear life.

I keep going—faster now. My tongue is relentless. My finger curling just right with each stroke.

But even through all that focus, I never stop watching her.

Not just to make sure she's okay—but because her pleasure does something to me. Seeing her fall apart, watching her body respond to me—it's addicting.

And then I hear it.

"I'm gonna cum," she gasps.

But she's not looking at me.

I pull back just slightly, keeping the pressure with my fingers steady. My voice drops, low and rough.

"Look at me," I order. "If you want to cum, you look at me."

She hesitates—body twitching, so close she's shaking.

"Now."

Slowly, her eyes find mine.

Wild. Wet. Dazed.

And just like that—that look—it hits me in the chest like a fucking truck.

"That's it," I whisper, tongue flicking over her clit once more. "Cum for me."