Ranjeet surfaced from the depths of a dreamless, satisfied sleep not with a jolt, but with a slow, honeyed climb into bliss. The first thing that registered was the wet heat. Not a passive warmth, but a deliberate, moving silken sleeve of mouth and tongue wrapped around the very core of him. Consciousness crept back in layers: the faint golden glow of morning sun pushing through the sheer curtains and directly between his thighs, a devoted, rhythmic suction that seemed to pull the soul right out of his body.
He didn’t open his eyes immediately. Instead, he let the sensation wash over him, every nerve ending in his massive, now fully engorged length firing pleasure signals straight up his spine. It was the kind of oral worship that wasn't hurried, wasn't mechanical. It was slow, reverent, profoundly loving and utterly, beautifully unasked for.
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