Lucy stuck out her tongue touching Owen's lower lip.
And that was the last straw.
He felt the wet tongue on his lips and he had to open his mouth to taste, to lick, to consume all that was in front of him.
Lucy's mouth welcomed all of Owen's ministrations, like a sea receiving a storm with its own waves. She grabs a handful of Owen's hair, pulling, but not really moving. The controlled grip is sending them both to the edge with the sloppy sensations on their tongues.
Owen's hands slides down and gets hold of Lucy's waist. His big hands squeezing what he could reach, his thumbs grazing the lower side of her breast, drawing circles on the bump he had contact with. Every stroke stirring lava in Lucy's abdomen.
Her body arcs. She raises her head just enough to make breathing space. They had to come up for air. Lucy was helplessly breathless, open-mouthed, as she felt Owen's thumb cover more ground with every circle it drew.
