Before I can respond, his mouth is on me, the direct contact stealing my breath. His tongue traces my folds with practiced confidence, re-learning territory he once knew by heart. The wet heat of his mouth contrasts with the circulating air of the room, creating a symphony of sensation.

I moan, the sound escaping before I can catch it. His answering groan vibrates against my most sensitive flesh, adding another layer to the building pleasure. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for his exploration.

"You taste the same," he murmurs against me. "Like coming home."

The words penetrate the haze of pleasure, a reminder of the complexity between us. I don't want to think about home or what we mean to each other. I just want to feel.

"Don't talk," I manage, my voice strained. "Just—please—"

He complies, returning his attention to where I need it most. His tongue circles my clit before flicking directly across it, the sudden intensity making my back arch off the bed. He does it again, establishing a rhythm that has me panting, one hand still tangled in his curls, the other gripping the sheets as if they might anchor me against the rising tide of sensation.

His technique shifts, his tongue flattening against me, applying broad, firm pressure that makes me cry out. My heels dig into the mattress as I chase the sensation. He matches my movement, never breaking contact, one hand sliding up my body to find my breast. His fingers roll my nipple between them, adding a counterpoint of pleasure that makes my breath stutter in my chest.

"Tiago," I gasp, his name half plea, half warning.

He knows my body too well, knows I'm approaching the edge. Instead of backing off, he intensifies his efforts, his tongue circling my clit with deliberate pressure before taking it between his lips and sucking gently.

The dual sensations—his mouth on my sex, his fingers on my breast—push me closer to the precipice. Heat builds low in my belly, radiating outward, making my thighs tremble. My hand tightens in his hair, probably painful though he doesn't complain.

"Please," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for. More? Release? Absolution?

Whatever it is, he gives it to me. His free hand moves from my thigh to join his mouth, one finger sliding inside me while his tongue continues its relentless rhythm against my clit. The penetration, shallow but perfectly angled, finds that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

A second finger joins the first, curling upward in a "come hither" motion that has me crying out. The stretch and fullness, combined with the wet heat of his mouth, creates a perfect storm of sensation. I'm close now, so close, teetering on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.

Part of me wants to fight it, to maintain control, to keep something of myself separate from him. But the larger part—the part that's been lonely and touch-starved for months—surrenders completely, letting the pleasure build without resistance.

"I'm close," I warn him, though he surely knows from the way my body tightens around his fingers, from the increasingly erratic movement of my hips.

He hums against me, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure spiraling through me. His fingers move faster, his tongue more insistent, creating a harmony of sensation that threatens to unravel me completely.

And then I'm falling, pleasure crashing over me in waves. My back arches off the bed, my thighs clamping around his head, my voice breaking on his name as the orgasm pulses through me. Colors burst behind my closed eyelids—reds and golds like the Brazilian sunset, blues like the Colorado sky.

Tiago doesn't stop, doesn't let up, drawing out my pleasure until it borders on too much. My hand pushes at his forehead, a wordless plea for mercy as sensation edges into oversensitivity. He relents then, pressing one final kiss to my inner thigh before resting his cheek against it, his breath coming fast against my heated skin.

For several moments, neither of us speaks. The only sounds in the room are our breathing, gradually slowing, and the distant tick of a clock somewhere in the house. The afternoon light has shifted, shadows lengthening across the floor, marking the passage of time we've forgotten to track.

I lie boneless against the sheets, aftershocks still rippling through me, making my muscles twitch occasionally. Tiago's weight between my legs feels both familiar and foreign—a comfort I'd forgotten I missed.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my hip, waiting for me to come back to myself. When I finally manage to open my eyes, I find him watching me with an expression that makes my chest ache—tenderness mixed with something deeper, something I can't allow myself to name.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

I nod, not trusting my voice just yet. My hand reaches out, fingers brushing a curl from his forehead. The simple gesture feels more intimate somehow than what we've just done.

"Come here," I manage finally, tugging gently at his shoulder.

He moves up my body, careful not to crush me with his weight, positioning himself beside me on the narrow bed. His jeans scrape against my bare skin, a reminder of the imbalance between us—me completely exposed, him still half-clothed.

"That was..." he starts, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.

"Yeah," I agree, understanding the sentiment if not the specific thought.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then my neck, then the corner of my mouth. I turn my head to meet him properly, tasting myself on his lips. The intimacy of it—my essence shared between us—sends a renewed pulse of heat through me.

His arousal presses against my hip, hard and insistent through his jeans. A reminder that while I've found release, he's still waiting. The knowledge sends a fresh wave of desire through me, slower but no less potent than before.

I reach for the button of his jeans, my fingers steadier now. "Your turn," I whisper against his mouth.