Roxanne’s breath fractured in her throat, sharp as splintered glass.

He was truly seeing her pussy with reverence. Not the broken wife, not the married possession—her. He was looking at the secret heart of her body that Jonathan had only ever claimed with bored ownership, never once knelt before, never tasted, never honored with anything gentler than indifference.

It was indeed something that deserved all the worship and love!

Phei gazed at her core like a pilgrim before a long-lost altar—awed, reverent, starving.

Her outer petals had bloomed heavy and full, flushed a rich, velvety crimson that deepened to molten wine at her center.

They parted of their own accord, trembling, revealing the delicate, dewy inner layers beneath like the secret pages of some forbidden scripture. Silken threads of her desire stretched between them, delicate as spider silk spun from liquid starlight, trembling and reforming with every helpless flutter of her depths.

Her entrance pulsed openly, a soft, hungry mouth opening and closing in silent invitation, as though already dreaming of being filled. At the crown, her pearl stood proud—swollen, exquisitely sensitive, quivering in perfect rhythm with the wild drum of her heart.

Beneath her, the generous curves of her ass flexed and softened in slow waves against the sheets, the valley between them already painted with the evidence of her long-starved need, a dark bloom of wetness spreading beneath her like an offering.

The air around her pussy entrance carried a thick, intoxicating perfume—warm, earthy musk laced with something sweetly feminine, the unmistakable fragrance of a woman awakening after decades of drought.

Phei drew her in.

Slowly. Deeply. Greedily.

His nose brushed the soft mound above her sex as he inhaled, eyes drifting shut, chest expanding like a man filling his lungs with sacred smoke. A low, rumbling sound of pure worship rolled up from the depths of his chest.

Roxanne shuddered so hard the bed creaked.

His breath ghosted back over her, hot and deliberate, a living caress across her exposed folds.

Her hips surged upward with a broken cry.

"Please—" The word spilled from her like a prayer torn raw.

Phei smiled against her heat, slow and devastating.

Then he kissed her pussy which wasn’t merely a lick—a worship.

The sound that tore from Roxanne was not human. "AAAHHHH—!"

Her spine bowed violently off the mattress in a trembling arc, every muscle singing. Her thighs clamped around his head like velvet vices before surrendering wider, knees falling shamelessly apart.

Her fingers plunged into his hair, twisting, pulling, desperate to fuse his mouth to her.

Pleasure detonated through her like wildfire racing across dry grass—brilliant, consuming, annihilating everything that had come before.

He kissed her the way he had kissed her bruises: with solemn, devoted tenderness.

His full lips pressed against her outer petals, coaxing them open like a flower finally allowed to unfurl.

Then his tongue—thick, velvet-smooth, and devastatingly hot—slid between them. The first taste of her made him groan, deep and hungry: rich, heady nectar from a woman who had waited her entire life to be savored.

He licked again. Deeper. Slower. Dragging the broad, wet length of his tongue from her fluttering entrance all the way up to her aching pearl in one luxurious, savoring stroke.

Roxanne screamed.

"Aaaahhh—haaaahhh—!"

Her walls rippled wildly around the intrusion as his tongue pushed inside her, drawing her essence onto his tongue like a man drinking from the source of life itself. Wet, obscene sounds bloomed in the room—lush, hungry, rhythmic—as he devoured her.

Rivers of her desire juice spilled freely over his chin, his lips, tracing warm paths down his throat.

Her hips rolled shamelessly against his face, riding every thrust of his tongue with frantic little circles, her full ass lifting and falling against the sheets in soft, rhythmic waves.

She held him there like a lifeline, nails scraping his scalp, thighs quaking violently around his ears. Her stomach clenched. Her heavy, bruised breasts bounced with every shattered breath.

The coil inside her tightened mercilessly, pleasure winding higher, brighter, sharper.

Jonathan could not look away.

He was forced to witness another man’s tongue buried deep inside his wife, drawing sounds and surrender from her that he had never once earned. Her face—beautiful, always beautiful—was transformed into something transcendent: mouth slack, eyes squeezed shut, tears of pure bliss slipping down her temples.

She had never looked like this for him. Never.

"Take me," she gasped, voice wrecked into something primal and bare. "Please—I need you to take me—"

Phei lifted his head, lips and chin shining with the evidence of her ecstasy. His eyes burned—dark, possessive, reverent.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, savoring her taste like fine wine, then rose to kneel between her trembling thighs.

His hands moved to his zipper.

Roxanne surged upright before he could finish.

Her eager, shaking fingers brushed his aside. This was hers to claim. She would be the one to free him, to reveal the instrument of her salvation that she’d heard so much stories from Adriana who heard them from Melissa.

She shifted deliberately, angling her body so Jonathan’s frozen stare could see nothing of what she was about to uncover.

Phei’s smile turned sharp with dark approval.

She was shielding what now belonged to her.

Her fingers found the zipper. Drew it down before he hands reached inside slowly.

Her gasp cut through the room—raw, stunned, almost reverent.

"Oh my—"

Both hands wrapped around him.

A single hand was nowhere near enough.

The heat of him branded her palms. The weight dragged heavily at her wrists. The sheer, breathtaking size stole the breath from her lungs.

He was magnificent.

Thick as her wrist, impossibly long, heavy veins mapping his length like lightning beneath velvet skin drawn taut. The broad, flared crown flushed a deep, furious plum, already weeping a steady, pearly stream of essence that rolled down his shaft in warm, luxurious trails, coating her fingers.

The living pulse of him beat powerfully in her grasp—hot, heavy, undeniably alive.

Roxanne stared, mesmerized, at the beautiful, monstrous gift that was about to ruin her so perfectly.

Her cunt fluttered visibly, another thick gush of pleasure juice pouring out of her as she imagined exactly how that huge, veined cock was going to feel forcing its way inside her starving, dripping pussy.

Roxanne looked up at Phei, eyes glassy with lust and devotion, voice a broken whisper:

Roxanne’s breath trembled like a leaf in storm winds as she whispered, "Should I?"

Phei answered with a single, deliberate nod, his eyes burning with quiet, dark reverence.

She leaned forward.

And breathed him in.

Just as he had done to her—mirroring the sacred rite, offering the same devotion he had shown her wounds and her core.

His scent crashed over her like a tide of a deep masculine earth, warm skin, salt, and something fiercer beneath—raw virility, ancient and commanding. It flooded her senses, pulling a fresh rush of molten need from her depths that spilled hotly down between her cheeks.

She inhaled again, slower, letting the heady perfume drown her until her mind blurred and her mouth flooded with hunger.

Then her tongue met the tip.