She licked the slit.
One direct, flat-tongued press against the very tip, her tongue pressing into the opening and pulling back with the slow drag of someone tasting something they've decided they like.
"Mmh." The sound carried information. "All that from one little pregnant woman."
His jaw moved.
"She's not little."
"No." She licked down the shaft again. Full stroke. Base to tip, the underside vein traced precisely. "She's not."
Her tongue came back up.
Found the crown.
Circled it — the tip of her tongue tracing the corona in one slow, complete revolution, following the ridge all the way around, her golden eyes looking up at him through her lashes the entire time.
His breathing had changed into the controlled breathing of a man managing himself carefully.
She noticed.
Her smile formed against the side of his shaft — visible there, pressed against his skin.
"There it is," she said quietly.
Then she moved to his balls.
