Shed Some Light On Me, Please | Lucy Bronze x reader | 18+ | Part 1
Summary - you admit you’ve never enjoyed sex before and Lucy decides to change your opinion
Content warnings - explicit sexual content, overzealous use of pet names (I’m sorry it’s a weakness of mine 🫠), oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), mentions of negative sexual experiences, praise, slight edging, mentions of men being men, enthusiastic consent and aftercare 😌
Word count - 13.5k words
Read Part 2 here
A/N - none of this has been proofread and I wrote the majority of it at night when I was very sleep deprived so read at your own risk 😌
Jojo tucks her legs beneath her, her hands waving around emphatically as she speaks. "I'm just saying," she declares, pointing her wine glass at no one in particular, "Tinder is a complete waste of time. I’ve had three matches this week and two of them opened with a dick pic, it’s disgusting."
"Classy," Weike says, leaning forward to pour the last drops from the bottle into her glass. Her eyes crinkle when she grins, a look of mischief in them, "what was the third one?"
"A shirtless gym selfie. So, you know, I guess you could call that progress.”
Nat snorts from her perch on the armchair. "Yeah, at least he had the decency to leave something to the imagination, even if it was just the face."
You laugh along with the others, and you’re a bit less self conscious than you would be sober. The wine has gone straight to your head and everything feels softer around the edges, warmer. The evening has drifted the way these nights always do; from training complaints to transfer gossip to who's dating who on the international teams, and now, inevitably, to sex.
Aggie shifts on the floor where she's been sitting cross-legged. "I don't get the dick pic thing, I mean I know I’m not the intended audience but has that ever actually worked on anyone?"
"No idea," Weike says, swirling her wine, "must’ve done at least once, bet some optimist out there swiped right on a close-up of a stranger's hard-on and thought, 'you know what, this must be the one for me.'"
The group dissolves into laughter again and you take a sip from your own glass, the wine flat and warm now, and watch the way Lucy's smile reaches her eyes when she laughs. She's sitting on the other end of the sofa wearing a t-shirt that’s gone soft from too many washes, and you notice that the collar is baggy.
"What about you, Nat?" Jojo asks, swirling her own empty glass, "been on any good dates recently?"
Nat pulls a face. “Not recently, my last relationship was so boring in bed I actually used to rotate set pieces in my head while she was on top of me."
"Nat!" Aggie reaches over to swat her arm.
"What? It's true. I'd be lying there trying to remember my positioning in a free kick and she’d just stop and tell me she was tired. Honestly, she didn’t even try half of the time, she’d just want me to get her off and then go to sleep.”
Aggie raises her glass in solidarity, “the curse of the selfish shag, we've all been there."
"Have we?" Jojo tilts her head, her hair falling over one shoulder. "I mean, I've had some mediocre ones, but nothing that made me think about work."
"Nah, sometimes I swear women can be worse than men," Nat says, settling deeper into the armchair, “I slept with a girl once who was almost worse than that. She just assumed she knew what I wanted without asking and did everything way too rough."
The conversation spirals outward with tips and complaints and shared horror stories. You listen more than you contribute, nursing the dregs of your wine and watching the way the lamplight catches the angles of Lucy's face. She's been quieter than usual tonight, you realise, not withdrawn exactly, but very watchful. It’s almost like she's following a train of thought the rest of you can't see.
"Communication’s so important, though," Nat is saying now, gesturing emphatically. "You have to tell them what you want, no one's a mind reader."
"Nah, that’s easy to say," Aggie counters, “but that’s actually so hard to do when you're in the moment and they're doing that thing where they think they're brilliant and you're just... not feeling it."
Jojo nods vigorously, adding, “or when they ask 'does that feel good?' and you're like, 'I mean, it doesn't not feel good, but it's not exactly setting my world on fire either,' and then you just say yes because it's easier."
"Exactly!" Aggie points at her. "Exactly that."
Weike leans back, tucking one leg beneath her. "The bar is so low it's underground at this point. ‘Did you come?' ‘Well, I didn't but I feel bad telling you that so...'"
"I've faked it just to get it over with," Jojo admits. "Multiple times. Is that bad?"
"Nah, solidarity in fake orgasms," Nat says, raising her glass. "We've all been there. Shouldn’t have to have done that, but sometimes it’s gotta be done.”
The conversation lulls for a moment, comfortable and warm. You're aware of a slight buzz behind your eyes, the wine making everything feel closer and more possible.
Maybe that's why you say it. Maybe it's the intimacy of the room, the way the evening has softened all your edges. Or maybe it's just that you've been carrying this particular weight for so long, and the wine has loosened your grip.
"I've never enjoyed it," you say.
The words come out quieter than you intended, but the room is small enough that everyone hears. The laughter dies. Five faces turn toward you, and you feel the heat creep up your neck.
"What, like actually never?" Weike asks, her tone careful.
You shake your head. "No, never. I've had sex plenty of times, but I've never... I dunno. It's always just been something that happens to me, not something I actually enjoy."
The silence stretches for a beat too long. Then Jojo shifts forward, her expression earnest beneath the wine-flush on her cheeks.
"Okay, but have you tried—"
"It’s all about communication," Nat cuts in, sitting up straighter. "Seriously, you have to tell your partner what works for you. It's not their fault if they don't know and you don't say anything."
"I have tried saying something," you say, and you're surprised by how steady your voice is. "It's not that. They just... don't listen. Or they listen for about thirty seconds and then go back to doing whatever they were doing before."
Aggie winces in sympathy. "Ugh, I hate when people do that, it’s like they think saying 'oh yeah, right there' means they can check the box and move on."
"Or they take it personally," Jojo adds. "You try to give direction and suddenly it's a blow to their ego and you end up comforting them instead of getting off."
The others nod, murmuring agreement. The conversation shifts to advice, tips and tricks and positions to try. Nat insists on circling back to communication, because of course she does, and Aggie talks about the importance of setting the mood and taking things slow.
You listen, and you nod, and you smile at the right moments. But something in your chest feels heavy, because none of this is new. You've heard it all before, the same well-meaning advice, the same solutions that assume the problem is technique or communication. No one asks the question you can't quite articulate, the one that sits in the back of your throat.
It's only when you glance at Lucy that you notice she hasn't joined in. She's sitting very still on the other end of the sofa, her wine glass forgotten in her hand, and she's looking at you in a way you can't quite read. It's not pity, which is what you'd expect. It's something else, like she's trying to solve a puzzle that the rest of the room doesn't even know exists.
You hold her gaze for a moment, searching for an explanation but her expression doesn't change. The look is steady, unmoving, and it makes something in your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the wine.
Then Jojo makes a joke about edible underwear, and the moment breaks. Lucy laughs along with everyone else, but when you glance at her again, she's still watching you from the corner of her eye.
The evening winds down the way these things always do. Aggie leaves first, hugging everyone in a completely overexaggerated way. Then Weike, who has an appointment in the morning. Jojo and Nat leave together, sharing a cab because they live in the same direction. They hug you goodbye at the door, Jojo squeezing tight and Nat pressing a kiss to your cheek, and then it's just you and Lucy in the flat.
The silence feels different without the others to fill it, it’s bigger almost. You should leave, you know you should leave, but you're not quite ready for the cold walk to the tube, and Lucy hasn't made any move to shoo you out.
Instead, she collects the empty wine bottles and carries them to the kitchen, and you find yourself following her with your own glass.
"Just leave it there," she says when you move to help with the dishes. "I'll do it tomorrow."
You set the glass on the counter anyway. "You say that every time."
"And every time, I do eventually do them." She turns to face you, leaning back against the counter. Her arms cross over her chest, and she's looking at you with that same expression from earlier, focused, intent.
"Can I ask you something?"
The flip in your stomach returns. "Yeah. Of course."
"What you said earlier, about never enjoying sex." She pauses, and you watch her choose her next words with visible care. "What did you mean, exactly?"
You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I meant what I said, I've never enjoyed it. It's always just... fine, I guess. Something to get through."
"Something to get through," Lucy repeats slowly, like she doesn’t understand what you’re saying.
"Yeah."
She's quiet for a moment. Then she pushes off from the counter and moves toward the living room. "Come and sit with me.”
You follow her to the sofa, the same sofa where you'd sat with the others twenty minutes ago. But it feels different now, just the two of you, a bit more intimate. Lucy settles into the corner, tucking her feet beneath her, and you sit at the other end, leaving a careful distance between you.
"Tell me more about it," she says.
"Well, what do you want me to say?"
"Whatever you want to tell me." Her voice is low, steady. "I want to understand."
You take a breath. The wine is still buzzing softly in your veins, making you braver than you might be otherwise. "It's like... no one ever takes their time with me. They rush through everything. The kissing, the touching, it's all just a warm-up for the main event, you know? Like they're ticking boxes. And then they're fucking me before I'm even ready, and I'm just lying there thinking, wait, can we go back?"
Lucy's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her eyes. "Go back to what?"
"To the parts that felt good, the bits where someone was actually paying attention to me, not just working toward the finish line."
You're looking at your hands now, unable to meet her gaze. "I like the beginning bits, you know, like when someone's touching me slowly, or kissing my neck, or just... exploring. But it never lasts, it’s always over too fast, and then they're going for it, and I'm just waiting for it to be done."
"Have you told them that? That you want them to slow down?"
"I've tried." You finally look up. "They slow down for a minute, and then they speed up again. Or they ask what I want, and I tell them, and they do it for like thirty seconds before they get distracted. It's like they can't help themselves. They get close and they just... lose whatever focus they had."
Lucy is quiet for a long moment. Her gaze hasn't left your face, and you feel exposed in a way you didn't feel when you were talking to the whole group.
This is different. This is Lucy, who you see every day at training, who you sit next to on the bus, who you've shared hotel rooms with on away trips. She's looking at you like she's never looked at you before, and you don't know what to do with it.
"What would you want?" she asks. "If you could have it exactly your way, what would you want someone to do?"
The question lands like a spark. You feel the heat rise to your cheeks, and you look away again. "I don't know. I can’t tell you that, feels weird."
"Come on." There's something different in her voice now, a coaxing note, warm and persuasive. "We're mates, aren't we? Mates talk about these things all the time, it’s not weird. Just tell me."
You take a breath. Then another. Lucy waits, patient as ever, and you find yourself wanting to tell her even though you're not sure why.
"I think I’d want someone to start with my neck," you say slowly. "Just kissing me there, not rushing to anything else, just staying there until I'm properly turned on."
"Mm." Lucy shifts slightly, settling deeper into the sofa. "And then?"
"Then maybe like my collarbones or something, my chest." You're acutely aware of how fast your heart is beating. "But not roughly, I’d want it to feel like someone's actually paying attention to how it feels."
"How would you want them to touch you?"
"Slowly." The word comes out softer than you intended. "With their fingertips first. Just tracing, you know? Making me wait for it. And then their mouth, but not straight away, not until I'm really wanting it."
Lucy nods, and you notice her tongue dart out to wet her lower lip. "Where else?"
"My stomach, my sides." You're watching her now, unable to look away. "I'm really sensitive there, if someone traces my ribs, I practically melt."
"That’s interesting," Lucy says, and the words send a jolt through you that you don't quite understand. Her voice has dropped lower, rougher at the edges. "What about lower?"
"Lucy—" you start, but she cuts you off.
"I’m just asking, you don't have to answer if you don't want to." But there's a glint in her eye that suggests she very much wants you to answer. "But if you do wanna tell me... I want to hear it."
You should stop. You should laugh it off, change the subject, make an excuse about needing to catch the last tube. But there's something in the way Lucy is looking at you, focused, intent, like you're the only thing in the room, that makes you want to keep going. That makes you want to tell her things you've never told anyone.
"I'd want someone to take their time," you say, and your voice is barely above a whisper now. "Not just, like, dive straight in, I'd want them to touch my thighs first. Like the insides of my thighs, they’re so sensitive, and no one ever pays attention to them."
"How would you want them to touch you there?"
"Hmm, softly, like they're savouring it." You swallow hard. "I'd want them to make me wait, make me want it so badly that I'm practically begging before they even get close to my pussy.”
The word feels strange in your mouth, way too explicit for a conversation with a friend, too honest. But Lucy doesn't flinch. If anything, her expression sharpens, like she’s more interested now.
"And then when they finally touch you there?" she presses. "What then?"
"I'd want them to be slow about that too." You're definitely blushing now, heat spreading down your neck and across your chest. "Not just going straight for my clit. I'd want them to feel how wet I am first. To let their fingers just explore for a bit and learn what I like."
"Do you like being fingered?"
The question is so blunt that it knocks the breath out of you. Lucy's gaze is steady, curious, and there's definitely something else beneath it now, something that makes the air between you feel thicker.
"Yeah," you admit, “but only when it's done right. When someone actually pays attention to what feels good instead of just pumping their fingers in and out like they're trying to get it over with."
Lucy makes a sound that might be agreement, or might be something else entirely. "And what does feel good?”
"I like it when they curl their fingers. Up, not just in." You're still speaking to your hands again, unable to maintain eye contact with her.
"When they find that spot and just... stay there. Press into it. Make me feel it building slowly instead of rushing me to the finish."
"What about their mouth?"
Your head snaps up. Lucy is watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Her pupils are darker than they were a few minutes ago, and there's a flush on her cheeks that you don't think is from the wine.
"I—yes." Your voice cracks slightly. "I like that, like when someone goes down on me properly. Not just flicking their tongue around like they're following a diagram, but actually taking their time and tasting me. Making me feel like they're enjoying it too."
Lucy shifts on the sofa, and you notice for the first time that her breathing has changed, it’s faster and shallower. Her legs have pressed together, and it looks like there's a tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before.
"Would you want them to make you come like that?" she asks. "With their mouth?"
"Eventually." You're having trouble thinking clearly. The air in the flat feels too warm, too close. "But I'd want them to edge me first, bring me close and then back off. Make me wait for it, make me desperate."
"Desperate," Lucy repeats, and it feels weird to hear her say it back to you like this, “you like being made desperate?"
"I think so, I've never actually had anyone do it properly." You risk a glance at her. "But the idea of it, the idea of someone having that kind of control, making me earn it, that definitely does something for me."
Lucy is flushed now. The colour is visible across her cheekbones, down the side of her neck. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips again, and you watch the movement like it's happening in slow motion.
"What about when you do come?" she asks, and her voice is rough in a way you've never heard before. "How would you want it to feel?"
"I think I'd want it to build slowly." You're not even thinking about the words anymore, they're just coming, spilling out before you can help it. "I'd want to feel it getting closer and closer, and I'd want them to know exactly when to push me over the edge."
"And what would you want after?"
"I'd want them to stay, not just roll off and go to sleep. I'd want them to hold me while I come down. Maybe touch me again, softly, until I'm ready for more."
Lucy is quiet for a long moment. Her chest is rising and falling visibly now, and when she uncrosses her arms to rest her hands on her thighs, you see that her fingers are pressed into the fabric of her joggers like she's trying to keep them still.
"You've thought about this a lot," she says finally, and it’s not a question.
"I've had a lot of unsatisfying sex to think through," you reply, and she laughs, a short, breathless sound.
"Sounds like it." She tilts her head, studying you with those sharp eyes. "You're all flushed, love. Is this embarrassing for you?"
"A bit." You try to laugh, but it comes out strangled. "I've never told anyone this stuff before."
"Never?" Her eyebrows rise. "Not even the people you've slept with?"
"Especially not them. It's easier to just... you know, go along with it. Let them do what they're going to do."
"That's sad, darlin’." The endearment lands like a physical touch, and you feel your breath catch. "All that wanting, and no one's ever bothered to find out what you actually need."
"I guess not."
Lucy is quiet again, but it's a different kind of quiet now, it feels charged and electric. She's looking at you like she's making a decision, and you find yourself holding your breath without meaning to.
"You know, I could give you that," she says.
The words hang in the air between you. Your brain stutters, trying to process what she's just said. "What?"
"I could give you that." She says it more slowly this time, like she wants to make sure you understand every word. "Everything you just described, I could do that for you."
You stare at her. Your heart is hammering so hard you're sure she must be able to hear it. "Lucy, we're friends."
"I know we’re friends." She doesn't look away. "That's why I'm offering, because I know you, and I care about you, and I think you deserve to have someone actually take their time with you for once."
"But—"
"No buts." She shifts closer on the sofa, and you catch a wave of her perfume that sends your head spinning. "I'm not talking about anything complicated, I'm talking about sex where someone pays attention to you. Where someone actually listens to what you want and gives it to you."
Your mouth is dry. "You're serious.”
"Yeah, I’m serious." Her gaze drops to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. "So what do you think? Do you want me to show you what it's like when someone takes their time?"
You should say no. You should remind her that you're teammates, that this could complicate things, that you value her friendship too much to risk it over something like this.
But the words won't come. Instead, all you can think about is the way she's looking at you, focused and intent, like you're the only thing that matters right now, and the ache that's been building inside you for longer than you can remember.
The silence stretches. Lucy waits, patient as ever, and you feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Then, slowly, you nod.
"Yeah," you whisper. "Okay, yeah."
Lucy doesn't move immediately. She stays exactly where she is, hands resting on her thighs, fingers still pressed into the soft grey fabric of her joggers, and the pause stretches long enough that you start to wonder whether she's changed her mind.
Whether the yes you whispered was too quiet, too hesitant, too tangled up in all the things you couldn't say. The lamplight catches the edge of her jaw, the slope of her cheekbone, and you watch the way her chest rises and falls, slower than yours, measured, as though she's counting her own breaths.
Then her hands lift from her thighs.
She doesn't reach for you right away. Instead, she shifts on the sofa, turning her body towards yours, and the movement is so deliberate, so unhurried, that it makes something in your stomach tighten.
Her knee brushes against your leg, just the barest contact, the warmth of her skin through the thin material of your dress, and she pauses there, watching your face.
"I'm gonna touch you now," Lucy says. Her voice is low, steady, and there's something underneath it, a current that runs through the words and settles at the base of your spine. "Is that alright?"
You nod, and she shakes her head once, a small movement, almost gentle.
"I need to hear it, love." Her fingers hover near your cheek, not quite touching. "Tell me."
"Yes." The word comes out rougher than you intended, scraped raw by the dryness in your throat. "Yeah, that's alright."
Her hand cups your face. Her palm is warm against your cheek, and her thumb traces a slow arc across your cheekbone, so lightly you might have imagined it if your skin wasn't prickling into goosebumps beneath her touch.
She holds you like that, her gaze steady on yours, and you realise she's not going to rush. She's going to take every second she wants, and you're going to feel all of it.
"Good," she murmurs, and the word lands somewhere between approval and promise.
Her other hand comes up, mirroring the first, and now she's cradling your face between both palms. The position makes you feel held in a way that has nothing to do with the physical weight of her hands, she's anchoring you, keeping you present, and the tenderness of it makes your eyes sting.
You blink hard, and she watches you do it, her thumb still moving in that slow, hypnotic arc.
"I'm gonna kiss you now," she says, and her thumbs brush the corners of your mouth—just a ghost of contact, barely there. "Do you want that?"
"I want that." The words spill out before you can second-guess them, before you can worry about whether they sound too eager, too desperate, too much. "Lucy, I—"
She doesn't let you finish. She leans in, and her mouth finds yours.
The kiss is slow, agonisingly, impossibly slow. Her lips press against yours with a deliberateness that makes your breath catch, and she doesn't deepen it, doesn't push for more, doesn't try to part your lips with her tongue. She just kisses you, soft and warm and unhurried, and the simplicity of it undoes something in your chest that you didn't know was locked.
You make a sound against her mouth, something small and involuntary like a whimper or a sigh but you can't tell which, and you feel her smile. The curve of her lips against yours, the faint huff of her breath, and then she pulls back just far enough to look at you.
"Again?" she asks, and the question is so absurd, so unnecessary, that you almost laugh.
"Yeah, please."
This time when she kisses you, it's deeper. Her fingers slide into the hair at the nape of your neck, and the sensation sends a shiver cascading down your spine.
She's still holding your face, still cradling you like something precious, and the contrast between the tenderness of her hands and the heat of her mouth is enough to make your head spin.
You're kissing her back now, your hands finding the front of her t-shirt and gripping the fabric, and she lets you, lets you pull her closer, lets you make small desperate sounds against her lips, lets you chase her mouth when she draws back.
"Lie back," she whispers against your mouth. Her breath is warm and damp, and the words vibrate against your swollen lips, “can you do that for me, sweetheart?"
You hesitate. Not because you don't want to, God, you want to, you want to so badly it's making your hands shake, but because lying back means surrendering, means giving her access to parts of you that have never been treated the way she's promising to treat them. It means trust, and trust has always been the hardest part for you.
Lucy sees your hesitation, of course she does. She reads it in the way your fingers tighten on her t-shirt, in the way your breath stutters in your chest, and she doesn't push. She just holds you, her thumbs stroking your cheekbones, her eyes soft and steady.
"You don't have to, love," she says. "We can stay exactly like this, and I'll keep kissing you, that's fine. That's more than fine." A pause. Her voice drops, low and warm. "But if you let me lie you back, I can do more, I can touch you the way you told me you wanted to be touched. Take my time with you."
Your grip loosens. Your hands slide up to her shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of her beneath the soft fabric, and you take a breath that shudders in your lungs.
"Okay," you whisper. "Okay, I'll lie back."
She guides you down slowly. Her hands move from your face to your shoulders, pressing gently, and you let yourself sink into the cushions. The sofa is soft beneath your back, the fabric cool against your bare arms, and Lucy follows you down, not lying on top of you, but hovering above you, one hand braced beside your head while the other traces the line of your collarbone through your dress.
"So beautiful," she says, and the words are quiet, almost as if she's speaking to herself, “do people tell you that?"
You don't answer. You've never known how to respond to compliments, always deflecting and minimising, but Lucy doesn't seem to expect a response. She's looking at you the way you've always wanted someone to look at you, like you're worth taking time over, like you're something to be discovered rather than conquered.
Her hand moves from your collarbone to the side of your neck. Her fingers are warm against your pulse point, and she must feel the way your heart is hammering because her lips curve into a small, knowing smile.
"Your heart’s beating so fast, darlin’," she murmurs. Her thumb traces the line of your throat, following the curve from ear to collarbone, and you swallow hard against the pressure, “are you nervous?"
"A bit," you admit, because lying to her feels impossible right now.
"Don't be." She leans down and presses her lips to your forehead, a kiss so tender it makes something crack open in your chest, "I'll take care of you, I promise."
She starts at your jaw. Her mouth moves from the corner of your lips along the line of your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the skin, and the warmth of her breath makes you shiver. She takes her time, each kiss deliberate, each press of her lips a small act of devotion, and by the time she reaches your ear, your hands are fisting in the cushion beneath you.
"Is this okay?" she whispers against the shell of your ear, and the heat of her breath makes you gasp. "Tell me."
"Yeah, it’s okay," you manage, “feels good, Luce.”
"Mmm." The sound vibrates against your ear, and you feel the faint scrape of her teeth on your earlobe, just a hint, just enough to make your hips shift involuntarily on the cushion. "You told me you wanted someone to take their time with your neck, is that right?"
God. She remembered. Of course she remembered, you'd told her barely half an hour ago, sitting on this same sofa with your heart in your throat, describing all the things you'd never had. And she'd listened, really listened, and now she's asking you to say it again.
"Yes," you breathe. "I want… I want you to—"
"Tell me," she says, and there's a thread of steel beneath the warmth in her voice, “use your words, sweets, need to hear you say it."
"I want you to kiss my neck." The words come out shaky, uncertain, but you force yourself to keep going. "I want you to bite me. Lick me. I want… I want to feel your mouth on me, I want—"
"Good girl."
The phrase hits you like a punch, your breath leaves you in a rush, and your eyes flutter shut, and you hear Lucy make a low sound of satisfaction.
"You like that," she observes, and it's not a question. "You like being told you're good."
You nod, not trusting your voice, and you feel her lips curve against your jaw.
"I'll remember that," she murmurs, and then she moves to your neck.
The first kiss lands just below your ear, a soft, warm press of her lips that makes your skin prickle. The second is slightly lower, slightly longer, her mouth opening against the sensitive skin and tasting you with the flat of her tongue. The third is lower still, and this time you feel the edge of her teeth, a gentle scrape that makes you arch off the sofa.
"Lucy," you gasp.
"Shh,” the sound is gentle, not dismissive. "I've got you, love, just feel it."
Her mouth moves down the column of your throat, and she kisses you the way you described, worshipful, intentional, like she's learning the geography of your skin and committing it to memory. Her tongue traces the line of your tendon, and you feel the wet heat of it seeping through your skin, settling into your bones. Her teeth follow, nipping at the thin skin over your pulse, and the sharpness of it makes you gasp.
"More?" she asks against your throat, and you can feel her smile.
"Please,” you say, and the word is barely audible.
She bites down harder. Not enough to hurt, not really, but enough that you feel it, enough that the sensation spirals from your neck down through your chest and settles low and heavy in your belly.
Her mouth works over the same spot, biting and sucking and licking until the skin is tingling and warm, and you're making sounds you've never made before, small, desperate, needy sounds that you'd be embarrassed about if you had any capacity for embarrassment left.
"God, you sound gorgeous," Lucy breathes against your neck. Her hand slides from beside your head to your shoulder, her fingers curling over the curve of it, holding you in place while her mouth continues its slow, devastating exploration. "I could spend hours just on your neck. Would you like that, darlin’? Hours of me just here?"
You whimper. Actually whimper, and you feel Lucy laugh softly against your skin.
"I'll take that as a yes," she murmurs, and then she moves to the other side of your neck and starts again.
This time she's less careful. Her teeth graze your pulse point, and then she bites down, not hard enough to mark, but hard enough that your hips buck again. Her hand slides from your shoulder to your hip, pressing you back down, holding you still while her mouth works over your throat.
"Stay still," she says, and the command in her voice makes you freeze, “let me kiss you, can you do that for me, angel? Can you be good and stay still for me?"
You don't know if you can. Every nerve ending is screaming for you to move, to arch into her, to grab her and pull her closer, but you force yourself to stay, force your hips back against the sofa, force your hands to uncurl from the fabric, force yourself to breathe through the wanting.
"Good girl," Lucy murmurs, and the words settle over you like a blessing, “so good for me, that’s it, just stay still and feel me."
She licks a long, slow stripe up the side of your neck, from the hollow of your throat to the soft skin beneath your ear, and you feel the cool air hit the wet trail she's left behind. Your skin is tingling, oversensitive, and when she blows gently on the damp skin, you actually moan.
"That’s it, love," she says, "don’t go all shy on me, I wanna hear you."
"I can't,” you say, your voice cracks. "I don't—"
"Yeah you can, sweets," she pulls back just enough to look at you, and her eyes are dark, intense, the warm brown swallowed almost entirely by black, “you've been quiet for too long, letting people ignore what you need. But you shouldn’t do that, not with me." Her thumb brushes your lower lip, pressing down slightly. "I want to hear every sound you make. Can you do that, let me hear you?"
You swallow hard, and you nod, and she smiles.
"Good," she says, and then she dips her head and returns to your neck.
This time, when she bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, you don't hold back. The moan that escapes you is raw and unfiltered, and it echoes in the quiet room like a confession. Lucy makes a low sound of approval against your skin, and her hand on your hip tightens, pulling you closer.
"That’s it, love," she says, and her mouth moves to a new spot, higher up, just beneath your ear, where the skin is thin and sensitive and you can feel your own heartbeat throbbing beneath her lips.
You moan, and then you say her name, and the word comes out broken and desperate in a way you've never heard yourself sound before. Lucy shudders against you, a full-body tremor that you feel through her hands, through her mouth, through the press of her body alongside yours, and when she speaks again, her voice is rough.
"Say it again."
"Lucy."
"You sound so fucking pretty moaning my name, darlin’."
"Lucy, please," you don't even know what you're asking for. Your hands find her shoulders, her hair, the soft fabric of her t-shirt, and you hold on like she's the only solid thing in a world that's tilting sideways. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need, princess?" She pulls back, and her hands frame your face again, her thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Her breathing is ragged, her lips swollen and pink, and the sight of her, undone, wanting, focused entirely on you, makes something in your chest crack wide open. "Tell me, use your words."
You try. You open your mouth, but the words are stuck somewhere between your heart and your throat, tangled up with fear and hope and the overwhelming sensation of being seen for the first time.
"I need,” you swallow. "I need you to keep going, I need you not to stop. I need—"
"I won't stop." She presses her forehead to yours, and her breath mingles with yours, warm and close. "I won't stop unless you tell me to, I promise."
She kisses you again, deep and slow and thorough, her tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your toes curl. Her hands move from your face to your neck, her thumbs resting in the hollow of your throat, and she can feel your pulse racing beneath her fingers.
Then she pulls back, and her mouth returns to your neck.
She picks up where she left off, but something has shifted. The tenderness is still there, the worshipful attention and deliberate care,but there's an edge to it now, a hunger that wasn't there before. Her teeth scrape against your pulse point, and then she bites down, and the sensation is sharp enough to make you cry out.
"Is this what you wanted, love? Does it feel good?" she asks against your skin, and her voice is low and rough.
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, this is, God Lucy, this is exactly—"
"Good." She bites down again, harder, and you feel the sting of it all the way down to your fingertips. "Because I've been thinking about this for weeks. Thinking about what sounds you'd make, how you'd feel when I got my mouth on you."
Her hand slides from your neck to your collarbone, her fingers tracing the line of it above the neckline of your dress, and the touch is so light it's almost unbearable. Your skin is hypersensitive, every nerve ending firing, and the brush of her fingertips makes you shiver.
"I want to touch you here," she says, her fingers dipping just below the fabric of your dress. "Can I?"
You nod frantically, and she pauses.
"Use your words, princess," she reminds you, and there's a hint of steel in her voice.
"Yes, please, touch me."
Her hand slides lower, beneath the fabric of your dress, and her palm presses flat against the curve of your breast. The warmth of her hand seeps through the thin fabric of your bra, and you arch into her touch without meaning to, a reflex, a need, your body responding to her before your mind can catch up.
"So responsive, aren’t you?" Lucy murmurs, and her thumb brushes over the peak of your nipple through the fabric. The sensation is muffled, indirect, and it makes you crave more, makes you want to tear off your clothes and feel her skin against yours, but you don't say that, you can't, the words are too big and too scary and too much. "Your body knows what it wants, sweets, you just have to let it happen."
Her mouth returns to your neck, and she bites down on the same spot she's been working, by now the skin is tender, sensitised, and the pressure of her teeth makes you whine high in your throat.
Her hand on your breast squeezes gently, and the combined sensation, her teeth on your neck, her hand on your breast, the heat of her body alongside yours, makes your thighs fall open.
Lucy notices, of course she notices. She pulls back from your neck and looks down at you, at your flushed cheeks and swollen lips, at the way your chest is rising and falling with each ragged breath, at the way your dress has ridden up to reveal the bare skin of your thighs.
"So needy," she says, and there's wonder in her voice, like she's discovering something precious. "Every little thing I do you react, do you know how hot that is?"
You shake your head, because you don't. You've always thought of yourself as difficult, too quiet, too slow to warm up, too hard to read. But Lucy doesn't seem to find you any of those things, she looks at you like you're an open book, like every thought and feeling is written on your skin in ink she can read.
"I want to touch your thighs," she says, and her hand slides from your breast to your hip, resting on the curve of it just above where your dress has bunched. "I’ll do it just like you told me you want, yeah?"
Your breath catches. “Yeah," you whisper, “want that, please."
"Then I'm gonna do that now." Her hand moves from your hip to your thigh, and her fingers trace a slow line from your knee to the edge of your dress. The touch is feather-light, barely there, and it makes every muscle in your body tighten. "But I'm gonna do it slowly. And you're gonna tell me if you want me to stop, or go slower, or do something different. Can you do that for me?"
You nod, and then you remember, words, she wants words.
"Yes," you say. "I can do that."
"Good girl." The phrase lands in your chest and spreads warmth through your body, and you watch as Lucy's lips curve into a smile. "Doing so well for me, you know that, right? You're doing exactly what I asked."
Her hand slides higher. Her fingers trace the inside of your thigh, and the sensation is exquisite, soft and slow and deliberate, just like you'd described. Her fingertips brush the sensitive skin near the crease of your thigh, and your hips shift, pressing up towards her touch.
"Patience," she murmurs, and her hand stills. "I'm not done with your neck yet."
Her mouth returns to your throat, and this time she doesn't hold back. She bites and licks and sucks, working over the same spots until your skin is tingling and tender, and all the while her hand rests on your thigh, warm and still and maddeningly patient.
You're making sounds you can't control now, small desperate noises that escape every time her teeth graze a particularly sensitive spot, and Lucy swallows each one like a gift.
"I want to mark you," she says against your throat, and the words make you shiver. "Wanna leave something behind so you can see it tomorrow and remember this. Remember how you felt, can I do that angel?"
Your voice is barely a whisper. "Yes, please."
She bites down hard, and this time it's enough to hurt, not badly, not enough to make you want her to stop, but enough that you feel the sting of it deep in your muscles. Her mouth works over the spot, sucking and licking, and when she pulls back you can feel the blood rushing to the surface of your skin.
"There," she says softly, and her thumb brushes over the tender spot. "Now you'll have something to look at, something to remind you."
She leans back and looks at you, really looks, taking in your flushed skin and swollen lips and the mark she's left on your throat, and the expression on her face makes your breath catch. She looks hungry and tender and fiercely proud, all at once, and you realise with a start that she's enjoying this as much as you are.
"Lucy," you say, and her name comes out rough and wanting.
"Yeah darlin’?"
"Kiss me again."
She smiles, and she leans down, and she kisses you, slow and deep and thorough, her tongue sliding against yours, her hand still resting warm and heavy on your thigh. And you kiss her back, and you let yourself feel it, and for the first time in your life you don't worry about whether you're doing it right or taking too long or wanting too much.
After a while, she moves downwards again, and her mouth lingers at your throat, her breath hot against the mark she's left, and you feel the slight throb of it like a second pulse.
Her weight shifts above you, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the other still resting on your bare thigh where your dress has bunched up. The air between you feels thick, weighted with intent.
She pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's a flush climbing her neck that matches the heat building under your skin. Her fingers find the top button of your dress, resting there without moving.
"Can I?" Her voice is low, that steady persuasive tone that makes your stomach tighten.
You nod, then catch yourself again, “yeah."
She holds your gaze as her fingers work the first button free. The fabric loosens at your collarbone, cool air rushing against skin that's been trapped beneath fabric all evening. She undoes another button, then another. Her movements are slow, like she has all the time in the world, each one drawing out the moment until you're vibrating with need.
"You have no idea," she says, working the third button, "how long I've thought about this." The fabric falls open to your sternum, and her knuckles brush the swell of your chest as she reaches for the next. "About getting you out of this dress."
A sound escapes you, something between a breath and a whimper. Lucy's mouth curves.
"Fucking hell, darlin', the sounds you make." She parts the fabric wider, pushing it off your shoulders, and the dress slides down your arms, catching at your elbows. The cool air hits your skin and you shiver, though you're anything but cold. Your chest rises and falls rapidly beneath your bra and Lucy's gaze tracks the movement like she's memorising it.
"Look at you." Her voice has dropped to something rougher, a rasp at the edges. She sits back on her heels, taking you in, and the hunger in her expression makes you want to cover yourself and arch into her touch at the same time.
"Lucy—"
"Shh." She traces a fingertip along your collarbone, starting at the hollow of your throat and moving outward. The touch is featherlight, barely there, and yet every nerve ending lights up beneath it. "Let me look at you."
Her finger reaches the point of your shoulder and traces back, following the line of your bra strap. "I've wanted to touch you for so long. Every time you stretched in training, every time you pulled your hair back—" She shakes her head, like she's dismissing her own restraint. "Drove me fucking mad, love."
Her fingertip follows the edge of your bra, dipping into the valley between your breasts. Your back arches off the cushion, chasing the contact, and Lucy makes a low sound in her throat.
"So eager." She says it like a compliment, like she's pleased, "I like that."
"Please," you say, and the word comes out breathless, embarrassing in its neediness.
"Please what, sweets?" Her finger traces up over the cup of your bra, following the lace trim, “tell me what you want."
"I want," you say before swallowing, trying to gather scattered thoughts. "I want you to touch me properly."
"Mmm." She considers this, her finger still trailing lazy patterns across the fabric covering your breast. "I am touching you."
"You know what I mean Luce"
"I do." Her smile sharpens. "But I want to hear you say it, I want to know exactly what you're asking for."
Heat floods your face. You've never been good at this, your previous experiences have been fumbling in the dark, literally and figuratively, hoping someone would figure out what you needed without you having to voice it. No one ever has.
"I want," You force the words out. "I want you to make me feel good. I want you to touch me until I—"
"Until you what?" Lucy's finger pauses, resting on the swell of your breast just above your nipple. Even through the fabric, you can feel the warmth of her.
"Until I come." The admission cracks something open in your chest. "I want you to make me come."
Lucy's exhale shudders. "Fuck, yes. Okay. Okay, darlin'." She reaches behind you, her fingers finding the clasp of your bra, and you feel the band loosen before she draws the straps down your arms. The cool air hits your bare skin and you resist the urge to cross your arms over your chest.
"Don't,” she commands, her voice firm, "don't hide from me, angel."
You force your arms to stay at your sides, fingers curling into the sofa cushion. Lucy's gaze drops to your breasts, and the sound she makes is almost pained.
"Gorgeous." She reaches out, tracing her fingertip along the curve of your breast, starting at the outer edge and spiralling slowly inward. The touch is maddeningly light, raising goosebumps in its wake. "Absolutely fucking gorgeous."
Your nipple tightens under her gaze alone, puckering into a tight peak. Lucy notices, of course she does, and her spiral tightens, bringing her finger closer and closer without ever quite touching.
"Lucy, please."
"Patience." But there's a smile in her voice, a warmth that takes the edge off the command. Her finger finally, finally, brushes the very edge of your nipple, and your breath catches. "I've waited too long for this to rush it."
She takes her time, tracing the border of your nipple with agonising slowness. Each pass brings her finger a fraction closer to the centre without ever touching it. The anticipation builds, your body waiting.
"Tell me what you're feeling,” she says, and her voice is low, curious, "I want to know."
"I—" You're panting now, struggling to form coherent words. "I need… everything feels… I'm so—"
"Sensitive?" she supplies, “needy? Desperate?"
"All of it, all of those."
"Good." Her finger grazes your nipple, and electricity shoots straight to your core. You gasp, back bowing off the cushion, and Lucy laughs softly. "That's it, sweetheart, let me hear you."
She pinches your nipple gently, rolling it between her finger and thumb. The sensation is sharp and sweet, bordering on too much, and a moan tears from your throat before you can stop it.
"Yeah," Lucy breathes. "Just like that, feels good, doesn’t it?"
She repeats the motion, adding a little more pressure, and your hips roll involuntarily, seeking friction that isn't there. The dress is bunched around your waist, your bare thighs pressed together, and you can feel how wet you are, can feel the slickness between your legs that's been building since she first put her hand on your thigh.
"Look at you," Lucy murmurs. Her hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same torturous attention, light touches that skirt around your nipple before finally giving you what you need. "Squirming for me already when I've barely touched you."
"Please," you whine, and it comes out strangled. "I can't, I've never—"
"Never what?" She pinches both nipples simultaneously, and you cry out. "Never been this wet from so little?"
You nod, beyond words.
"That's because no one's ever taken their time with you, princess." Her voice hardens with something like anger on your behalf. "No one's paid attention to what you need. But I'm gonna, I'm gonna learn every single thing you like."
She lowers her head, and you feel her breath first, warm against your damp skin. Then her tongue, a single broad stroke across your nipple, and your vision blurs.
"Oh my god—"
She takes your nipple into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tight peak. The wet heat is overwhelming after all that teasing, and your hand flies to the back of her head without conscious thought, fingers tangling in her hair.
She hums approval against your skin, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. Her mouth works you with focused attention, soft laps that make you whimper, then harder sucks that make you gasp. Each shift in pressure sends jolts of pleasure straight between your legs, and you can feel yourself getting wetter, your underwear ruined, your thighs slick.
"Please,” you say, and you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore, “please, Lucy, I need—"
"I know what you need, darlin’." She shifts to your other breast, her hand coming up to palm the one she's abandoned. Her thumb rolls your wet nipple while her mouth closes over the other, and the dual sensation makes you sob.
She sucks harder, her cheeks hollowing, and the pressure is almost too much, almost painful in the best way. Your hips are moving constantly now, a rhythmic grinding that you can't control, chasing something you can't reach.
"You're so fucking sexy like this." Lucy releases your nipple with a wet pop and looks up at you, her lips swollen and glistening. "Writhing underneath me, making those sounds, I could watch you for hours."
"Hours?" The word comes out strangled.
"At least." She grins, predatory. "I want to edge you until you're begging, until you can't think about anything except how badly you need to come."
"I'm already there." The confession tumbles out. "I'm already… I need—"
"What do you need?" She sits back slightly, her hands still on your breasts, thumbs stroking your nipples in maddening circles. "Tell me, come on, use your words like I told you."
Your face burns. "I need you to touch my pussy, I need you to make me come."
Lucy's breath catches. "Fuck. Say that again."
"I need you to touch my pussy." The words come easier this time, emboldened by her reaction. "I need you inside me. I need—"
"Not yet." She leans down again, her mouth finding your breast, and you want to scream with frustration, "I'm not done with these yet."
She sucks your nipple hard, scraping her teeth lightly over the peak, and the jolt of sensation makes your hips buck. Her hand tightens on your other breast, pinching and rolling, and the combined stimulation has you shaking.
"You like that." It's not a question. She can feel your response, read it in every twitch and gasp. "You like it when I'm a bit rough."
"I don't know—"
"I think you do." She bites down gently, and you moan. "I think you've never had someone who paid enough attention to find out what you like. But I'm finding out, aren't I, sweetheart? Learning exactly what makes you lose control."
She switches breasts again, her mouth hot and relentless. Her hand slides down your ribs, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, and your stomach muscles clench beneath her touch.
"So sensitive for me, aren’t you, baby?" She speaks against your skin, her lips moving over the swell of your breast. "Every touch gets a reaction, I wonder how wet you are. Should I check?"
"Please." The word is barely a whisper.
"Later." She takes your nipple into her mouth again, sucking deep, and you feel the pull all the way to your core. Your thighs press together, trying to create any friction at all, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough except her touch where you need it most.
"Lucy, I can't—"
"You can." She releases your nipple and blows gently across the wet skin, and you shiver violently. "You can take it. You're gonna take it, ‘cause I'm not done with you yet."
She licks a broad stripe across your nipple, then flutters her tongue against the peak in quick, teasing strokes. The contrast between the soft laps and the harder sucks she intersperses keeps you off-balance, never sure what's coming next. Your hands grip the cushion so hard your knuckles ache.
"Your tits are perfect." She nuzzles into the valley between them, then turns her head to mouth at the underside of your breast. "I've thought about them so many times. Wondered if your nipples were sensitive, wondered if you'd make these sounds if I sucked them."
"You thought about—"
"All the time." She sucks a mark into the soft skin beneath your breast, and you know you'll see it tomorrow as a reminder, like the one on your neck. "In the shower, in bed. During training when you'd stretch and your shirt would ride up."
"Lucy."
"I'd go home and touch myself thinking about you." The confession is raw, honest, and it makes your pussy clench around nothing. "Thinking about doing this, making you feel good. Hearing you moan my name.”
You're trembling now, overwhelmed by sensation and confession. Her mouth returns to your nipple, sucking with intent, and she hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that vibrates through your chest.
"I'm so close." The admission surprises you. You didn't know it was possible to be this close without direct contact, but your body is wound tight, every nerve ending screaming. "Just from this… I'm—"
"You won’t come yet, darlin’." Lucy pulls back, her voice firm. "Not until I'm inside you, I want to feel it on my fingers."
"I don't know if I can—"
"You can." She kisses your breast, then your sternum, then the curve of your ribs. "You will, because I told you to."
Something about the command makes you shudder. You've never been with someone who talked like this, who told you what to do, who took control so completely. It should feel strange, but instead it feels like relief. It’s like you can stop worrying about what you're supposed to do and just feel.
"Good girl." Lucy must see something in your expression, some shift that tells her you've surrendered. "That's it, let me take care of you."
She returns to your breasts, but this time she's gentler, soft kisses and lighter sucks that soothe as much as they arouse. Her hand cups your breast, thumb tracing lazy circles around your nipple, and the contrast to the intensity of moments ago makes you whimper.
"I want you so much, Luce,” you say, and the words spill out, unfiltered, "never wanted anyone this much."
Lucy pulls back to look at you, and the expression on her face makes your breath catch. There's desire there, yes, heat and hunger, but there's something else too. Something softer in it.
"I'm gonna give you everything you need, angel." She traces your cheekbone with her thumb, the same gesture from earlier, grounding you. "Everything you've been missing, I promise."
She kisses you then, slow and deep, her tongue sliding against yours, and you realise distantly that she's still fully dressed while you're half-naked beneath her. The imbalance should feel awkward, but instead it feels intentional, like she's focusing entirely on you.
When she pulls back, she's breathing harder. "I need to taste more of you, I need… can I take this off?"
She plucks at your dress, still bunched around your waist. You nod, lifting your hips, and she works the fabric down over your curves, past your hips, down your legs, until it's discarded on the floor. You're left in just your underwear and it’s soaked through with your arousal.
Lucy stares at the wet patch, and her throat works as she swallows.
"Look at you,” she says, and her voice is rough, “you're dripping. This all from me playing with your tits, sweetheart?"
"Yeah." You don't have the capacity for embarrassment anymore. "All from you."
"Fuck." She leans down and presses her mouth to the wet fabric, and you feel the heat of her breath against your core. Your hips buck up, chasing her face, and she laughs against you. "Eager, aren't you?"
"I told you I need—"
"I know what you need." She reaches for you again, her hands finding your breasts, and you arch into her touch. Her thumbs stroke across your nipples, still swollen and sensitive from her mouth, and you whimper.
"Next time," she says, rolling your nipples between her fingers, "I'm going to spend even longer on these, gonna tie you down and play with them until you're crying, and then I'm going to make you come over and over."
"Next time?" You latch onto the words, hope blooming in your chest.
"Did you think this was a one-time thing?" She pinches harder, and you gasp. "Darlin', I'm just getting started with you."
She lowers her head again, sucking your nipple into her mouth with renewed intensity. Her tongue works the peak in tight circles, then she pulls back and blows, and the cool air on wet skin makes you shake.
"You're doing so well, being so good for me."
The praise washes over you, warm and bright. You've never been praised during sex before, never been told you were good, that you were doing well. It makes you want to be better, to give her more.
"I want to touch you,” you gasp, the words come out before you can stop them. "I want to make you feel good too."
Lucy moans against your breast, the sound vibrating through your chest. "You will, love, but tonight’s about you. Tonight I'm showing you how you deserve to be treated."
She sucks your nipple one more time, hard, then releases it with a wet sound. Her hands continue to stroke your breasts, gentler now, as your breathing slowly returns to something approaching normal.
Lucy's hands slide from your breasts and find the waistband of your underwear. Just the edge of it, the thin elastic pressing into the soft skin below your navel. She runs a single finger along it, from hip to hip, tracing the boundary like she's memorising the shape of it.
The fabric is soaked through and you can feel how wet you are, have been able to feel it for what seems like hours, the fabric clinging to your most sensitive flesh.
"You're dripping through these, darlin’," Lucy says. Her voice is low, rougher than before. She hooks one finger beneath the elastic at your hip, tugging it just slightly, not enough to remove it, just enough to make your breath catch. "I can feel how much you want this."
You arch your back slightly, instinctively pushing up toward her hand. She responds by pressing you back down against the cushion with her palm flat on your stomach. The pressure is firm, grounding.
"Patience," she murmurs. Her other hand mirrors the first, both index fingers now tucked beneath the waistband at either hip. She holds you there, poised on the edge of exposure, and meets your eyes. The look she gives you is heavy with intention, as she says, “I’m taking my time with you."
She begins to pull the fabric down slowly, agonisingly slowly. The elastic drags across your skin, peeling the wet fabric away from where it's stuck to your flesh. Cool air hits you as more of you is revealed, and you shiver despite the warmth of the room.
Lucy's gaze follows the path of the fabric downward, her eyes roaming over your skin.
"Christ," she breathes. She tugs the underwear past your hips, down your thighs, and you lift your feet one at a time so she can remove it entirely. She drops it somewhere, you don't hear where it lands because your pulse is too loud in your ears.
Now you're fully bare beneath her, completely exposed.
The cool air moves against your wet heat, and you resist the urge to close your thighs, to hide yourself from her intense stare. Lucy's hands rest on your knees, keeping you open, keeping you on display for her.
"Look at you," she says. Her thumbs stroke the soft skin on the inside of your knees. "You're gorgeous, you know that? Every fuckin’ inch of you."
You make a sound, something between a whimper and a word. Your hands fist in the cushion beneath you, nails digging into the fabric.
Lucy leans forward and you can feel her breath on you, and she blows ever so gently against your skin. You shiver, your body unable to prevent it.
"Sensitive, aren’t you princess?" she observes. She presses a kiss to your inner thigh, close enough that you feel the brush of her lips but not where you need them. "And I haven't even started yet."
Another kiss, higher this time. Her mouth is hot and soft, and she lets it linger, lets you feel the shape of her lips against the tender skin. Then another, and another, each one closer to your centre. Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying open, of not grabbing her head and pulling her where you want her.
"Luce," you whine, and her name comes out broken and desperate.
She looks up at you. Her lips are slightly swollen, glistening faintly from where she's pressed them to your skin. "Tell me what you want, love, and I’ll give it to you.”
"You know what I want."
"I do, but I want to hear you say it." She kisses your thigh again, so close now that you can feel the heat of her breath on your wet flesh. "Use your words again for me."
Your throat is dry despite the way your body is drenched. "I want your mouth."
A flicker of a smile. "Where?"
"There. On my—" You swallow. "Please."
"Please what, sweets?"
"Please touch me."
The words barely leave your lips before Lucy descends. Her tongue finds you in one long, slow stroke, and the sound that escapes your throat is raw and uncontrolled. She maps you with deliberate attention, licking from your entrance to your clit with a flat, broad stroke that has your back arching off the sofa.
"Fuck." You reach down without thinking, your fingers tangling in her hair. The strands are soft between your fingers, and you grip them tightly as she works her mouth against you.
Lucy is nothing if not thorough. She traces every fold, every crease, learning the geography of you with a worshipper's devotion. She circles around your clit with the tip of her tongue, not touching it directly, not yet, just around until you're writhing beneath her. The sounds she makes are obscene, wet and hungry, and they mix with your gasps and moans until the room is filled with them.
"You taste so fucking good," she says against your flesh. The vibration of her voice sends a jolt through your core, “so fucking desperate for me."
She dips her tongue inside you, and you clench around it, seeking more pressure, more depth. She gives it to you, thrusting her tongue in and out in a rhythm that makes your thighs shake. Her hands grip your hips, holding you steady as you try to buck against her face.
"Don't move, love, be a good girl for me," she commands. Her breath is hot against your wetness when she speaks.
You force yourself to still, to surrender to the slow, devastating pace she's set. Your fingers remain in her hair, but you loosen your grip, letting her control the angle, the pressure, the rhythm. She rewards you with another deep stroke of her tongue, followed by a suction that has you crying out.
"That's it," Lucy murmurs. "Let me hear you."
She returns to your clit, this time with more direct attention. Her tongue flicks against the sensitive bundle of nerves, rapid and precise, and you feel the orgasm building in your core. It's been threatening for so long, held at bay by her careful edging, and now it's rising fast and unstoppable.
But she senses it. She pulls back just enough, replacing her tongue with her fingers which taunt you with light, teasing strokes that keep you at the precipice without pushing you over. You whimper at the loss of her mouth, at the deliberate denial.
"Not yet," she says. Her voice is gentle but firm. "I told you, sweets, not ‘til I'm inside you."
"Please," you beg. The word is ragged, torn from somewhere deep in your chest. "Please, I can't—"
"Yeah you can." She presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh. "You’ll do it for me, won’t you angel? Be my good girl?"
Her fingers continue their maddening work, circling your entrance, dipping inside just barely before withdrawing. She spreads your wetness, coating her fingers with it, using it to slick the path for what comes next. You're actually dripping, you can feel it, the evidence of your arousal pooling beneath you on the cushion.
She takes her time. Every stroke of her tongue is measured, deliberate, designed to bring you to the edge without letting you fall. She alternates between broad, flat licks and suction and gentle kisses, reading your body's responses with an almost supernatural precision.
When your breathing quickens, she slows down. When your thighs begin to tense, she eases off. She keeps you suspended in that agonising space between pleasure and release, and you're not sure if you want to scream or cry or beg.
"You're so fucking wet for me," she says between strokes. Her accent is thick with desire, muffled against your flesh. "So needy for my fingers, aren’t you baby?"
"I need it," you echo. The words tumble out without thought. "I need you, Lucy, please—"
She hums against you, a sound of satisfaction, and the vibration makes your hips jerk. She holds you down with one hand splayed across your stomach while her other hand finally pushes inside you.
One finger slides in to the knuckle, and you both moan. You because of the stretch, the fullness, the relief of being filled after so much empty wanting. She because of the way your body grips her, tight and hot and slick.
"Christ, you feel so good," Lucy breathes. She doesn't move yet, just holds her finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion. "So tight, so fucking perfect."
She begins to move. Slow thrusts, each one dragging against your front wall with deliberate pressure. Her mouth returns to your clit, her tongue working in tandem with her fingers, and the combination makes stars burst behind your eyelids.
"Does that feel good, princess?" she asks. The question is casual, almost conversational, but there's an edge to it, and you can hear how turned on she is.
"Yeah, oh my god," you gasp.
"Tell me, sweetheart." Another thrust, deeper this time. Her finger curls inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "Tell me how it feels."
"It feels,” you struggle to form words, “it feels like you're everywhere, like I can't think. Like I can't—"
"Good girl." She adds a second finger, and the stretch makes you cry out. The fullness is almost too much after being kept on the edge for so long, but your body welcomes it, drawing her in deeper. "That's it, take me. Take everything I give you."
Her fingers set a rhythm now, steady and sure. Each thrust is met with the wet sound of your body accepting her, and the obscenity of it only makes you more aroused. Lucy's mouth works your clit with skilful attention, her tongue matching the pace of her fingers, and you feel your orgasm building again, stronger this time, more insistent.
"Lucy,” you moan, and her name is a warning and a plea.
She looks up at you without removing her mouth, and the sight of her between your thighs, her lips swollen and glistening with your wetness, nearly undoes you. Her eyes are dark with desire, with possession, with something that looks almost like reverence.
"Yeah, that’s it baby," she says against you. "I wanna feel you come, wanna taste it."
Her fingers curl again, pressing against that spot inside you, and her tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. The dual sensation is too much, the edge crumbles, and you fall.
The orgasm crashes through you in waves. Your body seizes, back arching off the cushion, thighs clamping around Lucy's head. You're dimly aware of the sounds you're making, broken cries, fragments of her name, words that don't make sense, but you can't stop them.
The pleasure is blinding, all-consuming, radiating from your core to every nerve ending in your body.
Lucy doesn't stop. She works you through it, her fingers still thrusting, her tongue still circling, drawing out every last tremor until you're shaking and gasping and utterly spent. Only when your thighs begin to relax, when your breathing starts to slow, does she ease her fingers from inside you.
She presses one last, gentle kiss to your clit, so soft it's almost chaste, and then shifts her weight, moving up your body until she's lying beside you on the narrow cushion. Her arm slides beneath your shoulders, pulling you against her, and you feel the fabric of her clothes against your bare skin.
You're trembling. Small, involuntary shivers that you can't seem to control. Lucy holds you closer, her hand stroking your hair, your shoulder, the curve of your hip.
"Shh," she murmurs. "I've got you. You did so well, darlin’."
You press your face into her neck, breathing in the scent of her. She holds you like you're something precious, something worth protecting.
"Are you okay, love?" she asks. Her voice is soft now, all the commanding edge smoothed away. "That wasn't too much, was it?"
You shake your head. Words are still beyond you, but you don't need them. You curl closer, letting your body answer for you, and Lucy seems to understand.
She reaches somewhere, you can't see where, and then a soft blanket is being draped over your bare shoulders. The warmth of it is a comfort, grounding you in your body after the intensity of what you just experienced. Lucy tucks it around you carefully, making sure you're covered, making sure you're safe.
"Stay here," she says. "I'll get you some water."
She starts to move, but you grab her wrist. Your grip is weak, your fingers still unsteady, but she stops immediately. Settles back against the cushion beside you.
"Or I can stay," she amends. "Whatever you need."
"This," you manage, and your voice is hoarse. "Just this."
She smiles. It's a small, tender thing, nothing like the wicked curves she wore while she was between your thighs. She pulls you closer, adjusting the blanket around your shoulders, and presses a kiss to your temple.
"Okay," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere, sweets."
You lie there in the quiet, your breathing gradually returning to normal. Lucy's hand moves in slow, soothing strokes down your back, and you feel your eyelids growing heavy. The tension that's been coiled in your body for so long, longer than just tonight, longer than you want to admit, has finally loosened.
In its place is a bone-deep relaxation, a warmth that has nothing to do with the blanket and everything to do with the woman holding you.
"Thank you," you say eventually. The words come out barely above a whisper.
Lucy's hand stills on your back. "You don't have to thank me."
"I want to though.”
She's quiet for a moment. Then says, “you can thank me by letting me do that again. Whenever you want."
A laugh escapes you, and it’s surprised and genuine. It makes your still-sensitive body ache, but you don't mind. "That might have to be soon."
"Good." You can hear the smile in her voice. "I'm gonna hold you to that."
She shifts slightly, reaching for something on the floor, and you realise she's picking up your discarded underwear. She doesn't hand it to you, just sets it on the arm of the sofa within reach. It’s a small gesture, but a thoughtful one, giving you the choice of when to put it back on.
"There's no rush," she says, as if reading your thoughts. "We've got all night."
You turn your head to look at her. Her hair is mussed from your fingers gripping it, you realise, and her lips are still swollen, still shining faintly. She looks thoroughly debauched, despite being fully clothed, and the sight sends a fresh spark of heat through you.
"All night?" you repeat.
"And then some." Her hand resumes its soothing path down your spine. "I meant what I said earlier, this isn't just a tonight thing. I've wanted you for too long to let you go now."
You don't know what to say to that. The confession is too big, too raw, and you're too wrung out from the orgasm to process it properly. So instead of speaking, you burrow closer, letting your body express what your words can't.
Lucy holds you. The room is quiet except for the sound of your breathing, the distant hum of the city outside the window. The cool air has lost its bite, or maybe you've just stopped noticing it. All you can feel is the warmth of Lucy's body, the softness of the blanket, the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat against your cheek.
You don't know how long you lie there before Lucy speaks again.
"Thirsty?" she asks.
You nod against her chest, and she reaches for a glass on the side table, you hadn't noticed it before, must’ve been there from earlier. She holds it to your lips, one hand supporting the base, and you drink. The water is cool and clean, and it soothes your raw throat.
"Better?"
"Better."
She sets the glass back and returns her arm to its place around you. Her fingers trace absent patterns on your shoulder, and you watch the movement through half-closed eyes. The touch is so different from before, no intent behind it except comfort, no goal except to be close.
"You're shivering, darlin’," Lucy observes.
"I'm fine, Luce."
"You're cold." She shifts, pulling the blanket tighter around you. "Do you want to move to the bedroom? The bed's warmer."
"Yeah," you say. "But I don't wanna move yet."
"Then we'll stay here." She presses another kiss to your hair. "As long as you want."
You close your eyes. Your body is heavy with satisfaction, your mind quiet for the first time in longer than you can remember. Lucy's warmth seeps into you, steady and sure, and you let yourself sink into it.
Her hand continues its slow path along your back, and you feel yourself drifting. The night stretches out ahead of you, full of possibility, but right now you don't need to think about what comes next.
Right now, all you need is this; Lucy's arms around you, her voice in your ear, the knowledge that you're wanted, that you're cared for, that you're not alone.
The last thing you feel before sleep pulls you under is Lucy's lips against your forehead, gentle as a promise.
