Chapter 368: Emma’s Taste(R-18) I was held in his grasp, my release trembling through me. His own rigid protest strained fiercely, ignored—for now. I recovered enough to meet his eyes again, seeing the unsated demand there, seeing that terrifying, still unsatisfied starvation looking back at me in utterly owned surrender. He wasn’t finished. And looking into those burning amber eyes, I knew I wasn’t either. The fear was still there, the disbelief, but they were swallowed by a terrifying, thrilling wave of anticipation. What else could this feel like? What else could he do to me? Silence returned, but fear still crackled along my nerves. The door had stopped. Safety resumed—the illusion we both knew we could only barely afford. And he still stared, silently possessive. Still kneeling. Still worshiping silently, holding the aftershocks of my pulse captive on his lips, feeling the next wave of tension inevitably beginning to rebuild... towards the inevitable crescendo... again and again. For all I heard in the silence now was his relentless licking—soft, once more—wet over a newly awakened peak, as fear mixed with unspeakable lust once more made my core clench tight in anticipation. Just that small touch sent fresh sparks through my sensitized flesh. He was awakening nerves I never knew existed. His relentless rhythm was restarting. And I knew, he knew with terrifying clarity, what that single taste truly meant next: I had no defense. Not against him. Not against the fire he ignited. Ever again. Peter intended to teach surrender to this new reality with terrifying patience... and I, the innocent who had wanted him forever, found I was utterly eager to learn. Until morning eventually ended the risk of discovery. He rose slowly, muscles shifting under his shirt like a great cat uncoiling. That predatory grace, now aimed solely at me, made my breath hitch. My body felt boneless, liquid, yet somehow I pushed myself up—knees trembling on the mattress, clutching the rumpled sheets like an anchor. I looked at him, really looked, and my vision swam. He wasn’t just Peter anymore, my brother and best friend, the object of countless secret fantasies. He was... everything. Towering. Powerful. And he’d just unraveled me with his mouth. My eyes, wide and damp (I knew they looked so pathetically cute when I cried), met his burning amber gaze. "Peter..." My voice was a shredded whisper, thick with tears and awe. "Please... let me... let me serve you." The words felt foreign, sacrilegious, utterly necessary. Offering myself up before I even knew what I was offering. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, dark and amused like velvet over stone. "Serve me, sweetness?" He teased, stepping closer, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Look at you. Barely holding yourself together." But his hands moved to his waistband, the fabric loud in the silence. The sound made me flinch, a fresh wave of heat pooling between my thighs. He was undressing. Because I asked. Because I begged. He shucked his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest and stomach I’d only ever glimpsed accidentally, skin warming the already charged air. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. He eased the denim down his hips, slowly, deliberately torturous. The dark fabric slid away, revealing... Boxers. Simple black cotton. But stretched taut over... something immense. A thick, heavy ridge straining the fabric, demanding attention. My gaze was locked, mesmerized. I couldn’t look away. My breath caught completely. He paused, letting me stare, letting the fear and anticipation coil in my belly like a waiting serpent. "Go on then, Emma." His voice was a rough command, velvet scraped raw. "Take them down. If you dare." My hands trembled violently as I reached forward. Fingers brushed the warm skin just above the waistband—electrifying contact. I hooked my trembling thumbs into the elastic. The scent of him hit me first as I pulled—clean skin, salt, and a darker, primal musk that made my own inner pussy muscles clench in response. I peeled the black fabric down, inch by terrifying inch. And then... it sprang free. Huge. Magnificently, terrifyingly huge. It slapped heavily against my cheek with a soft, warm sound, making me gasp. Not just at the sheer, impossible size—he was thicker and longer than anything I’d ever imagined, thicker than the furtive glances Sarah and I had stolen from magazines online years ago or his huge cock we saw. It was more than just huge—but because it was... beautiful. Not just a body part. Marble-strained skin, flushed a deep, aroused pink, thick veins clawing like dark rivers beneath the surface, pulsing with life. A bead of pearly moisture welled at the broad, flushed tip, catching the dim light. It was powerful, primal, terrifyingly potent. He was magnificent. My world narrowed to this monument of maleness before me. My hands, seemingly moving on instinct, rose to cradle it. It felt hot and heavy steel in my grasp, velvety skin stretched taut over impossible hardness. I couldn’t even close my fingers around its base. A nervous whimper escaped me, part fear, part dawning reverence. Still holding him, marveling at the weight and heat, I leaned in without conscious thought. I pressed my nose against the warm skin where his thigh met his pelvis, inhaling deeply. That musky scent intensified, flooding my senses—intimate, raw, Peter. It was dizzying, intoxicating. My tongue peeked out, tentative as a fawn’s first steps. I gave a slow, hesitant lick along the thick vein tracing the underside of his shaft. The taste exploded on my tongue: salt, musk, a unique, complex flavor that was him. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever known. My body reacted instantly, a fresh wave of slickness coating my inner thighs. I did it again, another slow, exploratory lap, this time swirling the flat of my tongue just beneath the ridge of the broad head. A low groan rumbled above me, vibrating through his flesh and into my hands. It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. "Fuck, Emma..." His voice was strained, thick. My hands tightened slightly, feeling the powerful surge of blood beneath the skin. I wasn’t just touching him; I was holding a force of nature. My innocence was stripped bare with every tentative stroke of my tongue, every shuddering inhale of his scent. I was discovering the raw, beautiful power of him, one terrifying, reverent lick at a time. Serving him wasn’t a chore; it was a revelation. And I wanted more. So much more. My shy explorations became bolder, driven by a hunger I hadn’t known existed.