“So…” he murmurs, dark eyes gleaming. “Dessert time?”

I grin. My feet curl around the bottle, pluck it from his grasp before he can blink.

He watches me. Waiting.

I arch one foot over the plate, slow and deliberate. “Dessert?” I echo, voice dipping low.

Then I drizzle.

A slow ribbon of amber coats my arch. Slides between each toe.

His breath catches.

I tilt my foot toward him.

“You clean this mess.”

I nudge the syrup bottle toward him with my other foot—playful, tingling—my sole already gleaming like honeyed glass. He watches me, that maddening calm unraveling in slow heat.

He’ll lick. He’ll tease. He’ll taste—

Oh god. Oh god.

“No hands,” I add, voice wobbling as I fold myself into some ridiculous sugar-glazed pretzel. Syrup pools beneath my thighs. My calves tremble with anticipation. “M-mouth only. A-and…”

I flick a syrup-glazed toe at his nose.

“…if you miss a drop, I’ll—I’ll—”

I never get to finish.

Because he moves.

Breath hot.

Mouth open.

And then—

His tongue.

One single, devastating lick up my arch—heel to toe—and the air implodes in my lungs.

It’s not quick. It’s not gentle. It’s obscene in how reverent it is. His tongue drags along the curve like it’s holy scripture, tasting me like I’m something to be deciphered. Every slow inch is a confession.

I make a sound I’ve never heard before. Something between a moan and a prayer. My hips jolt off the bed entirely, a full-body spasm of disbelief and surrender.

“Fair warning,” I gasp, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, “I’m… ticklish he—ah!”

Lies. Total lies. I’m not ticklish. I’m possessed.

His lips curve against the pad of my toe like he knows it. And then—God—he sucks my big toe into his mouth. Slow. Deep. Like he’s pulling something sacred from me. The sound—wet, deliberate—cracks open something low in my belly.

My back arches like a drawn bow. My thighs quake, a trembling staccato. My breath catches in my throat, skips, stutters, restarts. My whole soul tries to climb out of me.

His hands press against my calves, keeping me spread, steady. His mouth works my toe like it’s a secret he plans to keep forever.

“A rule!” I cry, voice wild and shaking as my syrup-slick soles clamp around his face. Sugar smears across his cheeks, my heel grinds against his jaw, and I ride the edge of madness without shame. Just need.

“C-chef gets…” My fingers fumble down between my legs—shivering, drenched—and I circle slow, dizzy spirals around my clit.

“…to f-finger herself watching you…”

His eyes lock with mine.

And I let him see.

Let him see every trembling motion of my hand—how I press my fingers into myself, how my knuckles shake from the effort of holding back. My breath’s a broken metronome. My feet twitch is his hands. And still, he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t break contact.

He’s not just watching.

He’s devouring.

My body jerks as he swirls his tongue in sync with my circling fingers—slow, decadent, cruel. Like he’s teasing a storm out of me, inch by inch. His hands grip my ankles now, thumbs pressing into the tendons there, grounding me as I unravel.

“God—” I pant, hips bucking upward. “You like it? Watching me fall apart?”

He groans low against my foot, a rumble that vibrates straight through the sole and into my spine. His mouth doesn’t leave me. He sucks harder—deeper—like he’s pulling something sacred straight out of my skin.

My toes curl. My fingers slip. I whimper.

He shifts just slightly, nose brushing my arch, his breath hot and maddening.

And then he speaks.

Voice muffled, but thick with worship: “You’re unreal.”

That’s when my rhythm breaks.

My hips grind up and hold. My breath shatters.

And he licks me again.

Slow.

From the base of my big toe to the very tip, like punctuation.

My jaw drops. A keening sound spills out—raw, high, helpless.

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue teases the soft skin between my toes, and I jolt, legs shaking in his arms like a vice.

I’m shaking now. Everywhere.

He groans. Low. Ragged.

His hands tighten on my calves, dragging me closer, until I’m folded, open, every inch of me strung tight between his mouth and my hand.

I press harder. Circling faster. My clit pulses under my touch, slick and needy.

He bites. Not hard—just enough. The pad of my toe. A warning. A promise.

“I can’t—” I gasp. “I can’t hold it—”

“So don’t,” he whispers. “Give it to me.”

My whole body pulls taut like wire—every muscle screaming with pressure. My back arches. My toes press against his tongue, tingling.

And then—

Climax detonates in me.

Not a spark. Not a wave.

A collapse.

Everything inside me caves in, syrup and heat and helpless sound.

My hand falls away. My legs shake. I cry out—wordless, wide open. My body pulses in aftershocks, little echoes of pleasure twitching through my thighs, my belly, my arch.

His mouth never leaves me.

He drinks it in like proof.

I fall backward, boneless. Breathless.

My foot slips from his lips, damp and loved and spent.

I am burning. Shattered. Worshiped.

Limbs sprawled. Breath gone. Syrup glistening everywhere. A ridiculous, holy mess.

My hand reaches for the syrup bottle. It’s still warm, slick with our fingerprints. I pass it to him, fingers shaking with need.

“Your turn,” I whisper. My foot nudges his cock through the towel—eager, reverent, teasing.

My sticky sole lingers there, pressing lightly, wanting.

“Pour it… wherever you want me to lick…”

Let me return this madness.

Let me worship.

Let me devour every inch of you like a starving thing at altar.

He grins.

Then—slowly, deliberately—drizzles syrup along the line of his throat. Down, lower, across his chest, his abs. My lips part in awe.

And finally, with maddening calm, he taps one glistening drop to his bottom lip. Eyes locked to mine. Silent challenge.

I crawl forward, still shaking.

Let the feast begin.

My toes dig into the mattress as I crawl toward him.

“Neck first,” I whisper, voice frayed and breathless.

The syrup is cool—startling—but his skin?

Fire.

I lower myself slowly, reverently, and my lips close over the sticky patch just above his collarbone. I suck gently. My tongue flicks. And his pulse—wild, strong, alive—pounds against the roof of my mouth like a drumbeat I was born to follow.

I breathe him in. Salt. Heat. A hint of soap still clinging to his neck. My nose bumps his jaw as I kiss up the side of it, slow, like tasting sunlight.

“S-stomach,” I murmur against his throat, trailing down. A pilgrimage made of skin and sugar.

My lips drag down his chest. My tongue swirls into his navel, and his abs jerk beneath me, a tremor that makes my own muscles clench. My toes curl straight up into the air, flexing like antennae tuned only to him.

Salt. Sugar. Surrender.

His stomach tenses again, a ripple under my tongue, and I swear I feel it in my spine. This is mine. This man. This moment.

Then I see it.

The drop on his lip.

“No fair,” I whisper, crawling up, one toe brushing his cheekbone like punctuation.

I kiss him like a woman possessed.

Not careful. Not soft. Messy. Desperate. Sticky. A wet smash of syrup and breath and sound, and his moan vibrates straight into my tongue. His lips part, greedy, and I dive deeper. Our mouths slide. Teeth scrape. And the syrup melts between us.

“Mine,” I pant against him, legs wrapping his waist, arching into his heat. “My… s-sticky… prince…”

Our bodies grind. Our breaths collide. It’s not a kiss anymore—it’s a claim. A communion.

Our ruined bed, our altar.

He pulls back, just barely.

Smiling.

Feral. Sweet. Devastating.

“Oh, I didn’t finish yet, babe.”

I blink. Stunned. Hungry.

Before I can ask—

He makes a new mark.

On me.

On the arch of my foot.

A single, golden stripe. Deliberate. Worshipful.

“Here,” he says softly. His voice cracks around the edges. “Please.”

Please.

To my foot.

Like I'm holy. Like this is a gift he's asking for.

He means me. My mouth. On my own skin.

My body dissolves.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck.