CHAPTER 82: MY LIBERATING WORSHIP (R-18)

I didn’t rush to take her jeans off. That wasn’t the point.

The point was to make her feel it. Every second. Every inch. Every breath.

So, I rose up from my knees just enough to bring my mouth back to her breasts, claiming them with the kind of focus that made time feel irrelevant. My hands slid up her sides again—slow, steady, warm—palms mapping the curve of her ribcage before cupping the full weight of her chest once more.

God, the way they filled my hands.

Soft and heavy, like they were meant to be held. Touched. Worshipped.

I kissed the underside of one breast first—right where her skin was still damp and warm from the steam. My lips grazed it slowly, following the curve, letting her feel the heat of my breath before my tongue flicked across her nipple again—wet, teasing, deliberate.

She cried out, the sound raw, needy, like I’d just tapped into something deeper than arousal. Like her body didn’t know what to do with itself anymore.

My tongue circled, slow and firm, then sucked. I wanted to imprint her with pleasure. I wanted every nerve in her body to remember me.

Her fingers were in my hair now, gripping, tugging gently as her hips pressed forward, like instinct was taking over—like her body was chasing every flick of my tongue without asking for permission.

I bit down, lightly. Just enough to make her gasp.

Then I let go with a soft pop and moved to the other.

It was slower this time. More torturous.

My hand kneaded her breast, thumb brushing the slick skin of her nipple while my mouth dragged kisses along the top, then the side, then finally over the peak—where I sucked, slow and deep, until her knees nearly buckled again.

She whimpered—shaky, breathless.

"Peter..." she moaned, voice trembling like it didn’t know what language to speak anymore.

"I know, baby," I murmured against her skin. "I’ve got you. We’re just getting started."

I kept one hand on her breast, softly squeezing, fingers tracing over the curve, as my other hand slid down her waist to her hips. My fingertips toyed with the waistband of her jeans—still soaked from the steam, clinging to her curves like they didn’t want to leave her body.

I tugged the button open with one flick, slow and smooth. Then the zipper—pulled down inch by inch as I looked up at her, making sure she saw what I was doing. Making sure she knew this wasn’t just me taking off her clothes.

This was me claiming her—one layer at a time.

I dropped to my knees again as I peeled her jeans down over those gorgeous hips, past thighs that trembled under my touch. Her skin was flushed, damp, glowing under the warm light. I kissed the skin just above the line of her panties—one slow kiss, then another—pressing my lips into the hollow between her hip and pelvis.

She was still wearing them.

A soft black lace, soaked through, clinging to her core like it ached to be pulled away.

But I didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

Instead, I dragged my fingers up her legs, stopping at the inside of her thighs. I spread her open just enough, letting her feel the air kiss the heat between her legs, letting her know exactly where this was going... and exactly how slow I was going to take her there.

I kissed the inside of her thigh.

Once.

Then again.

And again—working my way closer, until she whimpered and her hand came down to grip my shoulder like she was physically holding herself together.

"You’re shaking," I said softly, lips brushing her skin.

"I can’t... I—" she gasped, voice barely working.

"You can," I whispered. "And you will. I’m going to worship every inch of you until there’s nothing left to hide."

And with that, I kissed the front of her panties.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that let her feel my breath, my hunger, my patience. I pressed my lips against the soaked fabric, groaning softly as her scent hit me—sweet, thick, fucking intoxicating.

She choked on a moan, thighs tightening around my head like her body was begging without her permission.

But I didn’t pull her panties off.

Not yet.

Because she needed to know—

This wasn’t about the finish.

It was about the journey.

And Isabella Rodriguez?

She was going to feel everything.

Her breath hitched hard when I kissed her through the lace again—mouth open, tongue flat against the soaked fabric. I dragged it up the center of her pussy, slow and firm, letting her feel everything through that thin barrier.

Her pussy juice tasted better than honey, really...

Her hips jerked forward. Another moan—louder this time, desperate.

My hands held her steady by her ass as I gave it a hard squeeze then the lowered, one on her thigh, the other at the curve of her hip, thumb teasing along the waistband of her panties like I was testing how long she could take this before she broke.

I kissed her again—then flicked my tongue right over her clothed clit, still through the lace.

She cried out.

Her thighs shook, and her hands shot down to my hair, gripping hard—like she couldn’t tell whether to pull me closer or push me away.

And then I slipped two fingers under the lace.

Her breath caught.

I didn’t touch her core—not yet. Just let my fingertips explore the inside of her thigh, the curve of her hip. I dragged them across her skin like I was sketching her into memory.

But then I brought my mouth back to that soaked center and flicked my tongue across the fabric again—deliberate, slow, right where she was throbbing.

She whimpered like she was falling apart.

"Peter~~... please," she breathed, voice trembling, wrecked, beautiful. "I can’t... please..."

I looked up, lips still pressed to the heat of her through her panties. "Please what, baby?"

"Take it off," she begged—so softly it was barely a whisper, like the words were too heavy with need to come out strong. "Please... I need—"

"You need me," I whispered, finishing it for her.

She nodded helplessly, eyes wide and wet, chest rising so fast I thought she might pass out.

So I hooked my fingers into the waistband and dragged the lace down—slow. Tormentingly slow.

The fabric clung to her, soaked and trembling, like even it didn’t want to leave her body. But I peeled it off inch by inch, kissing the skin I revealed as I went—her thighs, her hips, the little sensitive crease where her leg met her pelvis.

And when she was finally bare?

Fuck.

She was glistening.

Dripping with want, thighs trembling, lips swollen and flushed—every inch of her soaked in steam and hunger and readiness.

I let out a quiet groan and kissed the inside of her thigh again. "You’re perfect," I whispered.

Then my hands slid under her thighs, pulling her gently forward until she was balanced on the edge, legs open, chest heaving, completely at my mercy.

She didn’t say a word.

She just looked at me—like I was her last prayer and she didn’t care what happened next, as long as it was me.

And then I lowered my mouth again.

This time?

No fabric between us.

Just her. Bare and open and begging.

And Peter finally showing her what it felt like to be devoured.