I hollow my cheeks and take him a little deeper. Just the head. My lips have to stretch around his girth, and I feel the corners of my mouth strain to accommodate him.
He pushes deeper, and I have to open wider. My jaw is already starting to ache from the effort, but we’re a long way from finished.
Another inch. Then another. My lips burn. I can feel every ridge and vein, the heat of him against my tongue.
I try to breathe through my nose and relax my throat the way I’ve read about in romance novels, but truth be told, I’m struggling.
He’s only halfway in and I already feel too full, like there’s no room for anything else—not air, not thought, nothing but him. My fingers dig into his thigh and I whimper.
I’m mortified to show my inexperience—until something happens: Lukas’s other hand
