I worked Belle through her first peak with my mouth alone, no abilities, no graft tricks, just tongue and patience and the specific knowledge of her body that six weeks of extraction sessions and stolen nights had burned into my muscle memory.
She came with both hands fisted in the sheets and her spine lifted off the mattress at an angle that would have concerned a chiropractor, her thighs clamping around my head hard enough that my ears rang for three seconds afterward. Milk sprayed from both nipples in twin arcs that caught the city light and turned into liquid gold before landing on the white cotton in spreading wet patches.
I gave her thirty seconds to breathe, then crawled up her body and sealed my mouth around her left breast.
The butterscotch hit my tongue and I swallowed greedily, each mouthful registering as twenty-five points that I felt rather than read, the counter in my peripheral climbing in small steady increments.
