At the foot of the bed, a figure kneels.

Broad shoulders, dark head bent low. The sound is wet. Obscene and soft in the hush of the room. A low, reverent moan rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating through the sheets, through your legs, through the tender, swollen flesh he mouths at like a man starving.

He hasn't noticed you wake. His hands are braced on your thighs, holding them apart, thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thigh in slow, possessive circles. He hums again, something wordless and pleased, and the vibration makes your toes curl.