He did.
We stripped without ceremony, coats and boots and the practical layers of a working day shed onto the floorboards. The bed took us with a familiar complaint of old wood.
Magnus's mouth tracked down my throat, over my collarbone, lower, and I arched into the heat of it with my fingers in his hair. When he put his mouth between my legs I stopped trying to trade lines and just breathed, thighs tight against his shoulders, the day's edges dissolving under the steady working of his tongue.
I reached orgasm with a broken sound I didn't bother to swallow, pulling him up by the hair and the shoulders until he was over me and pushing in.
