Soap’s hand left her cheek. His eyes held hers for a long, silent moment, blue and searching, reading the truth in her closed lids and the way her face pressed into his palm. He didn’t speak. He just moved.
He shifted his weight, his broad shoulders blocking the dim emergency light as he lowered himself down the narrow cot. The rough fabric scraped under his knees. He settled between her thighs, which were still parted from his earlier retreat, glistening with the evidence of their failed attempt. His hands, callused and warm, slid beneath her knees, lifting them gently, opening her further to the cool, concrete-scented air.
He didn’t look away from her face. “Breathe, Sam.”
His breath washed over her first. A warm, damp wave against the swollen, stinging flesh he’d torn. It wasn’t a kiss. It was an exhale. An acknowledgment. A prelude.
Sam’s eyes flew open. Her head lifted off the thin pillow, muscles in her neck cording tight. “Soap—”
“Shhh.” The sound was a low rumble, felt more than heard. “Just breathe.”
Then he lowered his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue was a slow, reverent stroke from bottom to top. Not seeking. Not demanding. Soothing. The wet heat of him was a shock, a balm, an invasion of a different kind. It swept over the raw ache, not erasing it, but transforming it. The sharp sting blurred, melted into a deep, radiating warmth that pooled low in her belly.
She gasped. Her back arched off the cot, a silent, taut bow.
He didn’t stop. His tongue traced the same path again, slower this time, with a focused pressure that made her toes curl. He explored the outer lips, the sensitive folds, with a medic’s precision and a lover’s patience. Every pass of his tongue was an apology written in salt and musk. He worshipped the hurt he’d caused.
Her hands, which had been fisted at her sides, flew to his head. Her fingers tangled in the damp, dark blond strands, not pushing, but holding on. It was the only anchor she had.
Soap groaned against her, the vibration traveling straight through her core. The sound was one of pure, desperate relief. He angled his head, his nose nudging against her as his tongue found a rhythm—long, languid licks that gradually focused on the swollen, hypersensitive bundle of nerves above.
Pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through the fading pain. It wasn’t the frantic, overwhelming sensation from before. This was a slow, building tide, each wave lapping higher, warmer. A trembling started deep inside her, a different kind of shaking that had nothing to do with fear.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin with the words. “Let me hear ye.”
A small, broken sound escaped her throat. It was half a whimper, half a sigh. Her hips lifted, seeking more of that wet heat without her conscious command.
He gave it to her. His mouth sealed over her, his tongue circling, flicking, applying a steady, relentless pressure that made her thighs quiver against his ears. The world narrowed to the points of contact: his mouth on her cunt, her hands in his hair, the rough blanket under her spine. The concrete bunker, the mission, the pain—all of it dissolved into the slick, rhythmic sound of his devotion.
Her breathing grew ragged, matching the pace of his tongue. The deep ache of penetration was gone, replaced by a throbbing, urgent need that centered entirely on what he was doing. The earlier tears of pain were forgotten; new heat pricked behind her eyes for a different reason.
“Soap,” she gasped, his name a plea and a prayer.
He answered by sliding a hand from under her knee, his thumb finding her entrance. He pressed gently, not pushing inside, just applying pressure alongside the maddening work of his tongue. The dual sensation was too much. The coil in her belly pulled taut, shimmering on a knife’s edge.
He felt it. He always did. His movements became more deliberate, his tongue fluttering fast and light against her clit while his thumb rubbed slow, firm circles below. He was building her, carefully, expertly, guiding her toward a threshold she’d never consciously crossed.
Sam’s grip on his hair tightened. A high, thin moan was torn from her lips. Her body bowed, every muscle locking as the first tremor ripped through her. It wasn’t a shattering crash, but a deep, rolling wave of release that started in her core and radiated outward, turning her bones to liquid heat. She cried out, the sound raw and unfiltered, echoing off the bare walls as he gentled his mouth, drawing out every last pulse until she was limp, shuddering, utterly spent.
Soap lifted his head slowly. His lips and chin were glistening. He looked up the length of her body, his blue eyes dark, his own breathing harsh. He watched her come down, watched the aftershocks make her stomach flutter, watched her hands fall from his hair to the cot, palms up and open.