He doesn't hesitate once she makes her request, it is no challenge, no dire thing, to wrap gentle hands around her thighs and stretch up. To kiss the shape of her mound, to drag an open mouth across the soft flesh at the deepest bends of her inner thighs. When he finally parts her folds it is with his nose, drawing through the wetness and delicate flesh and chased by lips, by his tongue, held open with the width of his chin, however narrow it actually is.

He devours her with enthusiasm, without care for how he might have to grind his face into her nethers, without care for mess or trivialities like air. He sucks and plies with a firm tongue, traces with flat strokes, traces the outside of her entrance here and then pulls the firmness of her clitoris between his lips. He draws it, sucking and slow, into his mouth and toys, indulgently with firm presses of his tongue.

Is there anything as glorious as this? As the taste of sweet and salt, of sweat and musk, sex at its most base and primal. He breathes deep of her as he drinks her in, his hands spread and grasping at her thighs and buttocks, kneading flesh tenderly and sharply in counterpoint to his mouth.

When her hair flutters across his thighs, he groans against her. His cock rises, but gradually, still fighting the haze of liquor in his blood. His gut is tense and tight already, twisted with emotion and anticipation, and it is all he can do to focus on his task.