He Glazed Me with His Honey: A Raw Tale of Desire and Surrender

He Glazed Me with His Honey: A Raw Tale of Desire and Surrender

The night wrapped around me like velvet—cool, fragrant, and full of promise. After tending to my bodywork clients, I slipped behind the wheel, the hum of the engine a low purr beneath Sade's sultry voice. Her music constantly stirred memories of R—of the way our bodies had tangled in the car just the night before, limbs entwined, breath fogging the windows, the taste of him still lingering on my lips.

As I turned onto his gravel driveway, the scent of earth and woodsmoke greeted me like an old lover. I paused, letting the crisp air kiss my skin, my gaze drifting upward into the ink-blue sky. The stars blinked knowingly, as if they too had witnessed our secret rendezvous. I exhaled the day, my body softening in anticipation.

Inside, the house radiated warmth—garlic and cedar mingling in the air, the wood stove casting golden shadows across the walls. R had built this sanctuary with his hands, his heart, and his quiet devotion. I felt it in every polished floorboard, every simmering pot, every gentle routine he'd carved out for L and J.

I climbed the stairs, shedding my coat and boots like armor. There he stood—bare-chested, pajama bottoms slung low on his hips, a piece of Naan bread in hand, eyes closed in quiet pleasure. My heart fluttered. He was comfort and carnality wrapped in one delicious package.

I moved to him, drawn by the magnetic pull of his scent, the strength in his hips, the softness in his breath. Our energies met like waves colliding—gentle at first, then rising.

Dinner was foreplay—laughter, lingering glances, the promise of what was to come simmering beneath every word. When he asked if I wanted to walk or retreat to his nest, my answer was a whisper laced with heat: "Upstairs."

In the mirror, I saw her—me, but transformed. A woman on the edge of surrender. I massaged coconut oil into my skin, my green eyes gleaming with anticipation. I didn't know what the night held, only that it would be unforgettable.

The bed welcomed me like a lover. I nestled into the crook of his body, our limbs a perfect puzzle. The Hanes came off. The socks stayed. His arousal pressed against me, insistent and reverent.

"What do you need?" I teased, voice low, breath hot.

His answer was primal—a hand at my neck, a shift of my hips, a hunger that pulsed between us. He asked permission, voice cracking with restraint. I gave it, with a request that made his breath hitch.

"I want you to come inside my ass tonight."

He didn't rush. He prepared me with reverence, teasing, whispering, watching as I opened myself to him. The tension built—a dance of fingers, oil, and whispered filth. I felt his gaze like fire on my skin.

When he finally entered me, it was slow, deliberate, sacred. Each stroke was a vow, each moan a confession. Our bodies spoke in a language older than words, deeper than desire.

"I'm ready to surrender," I told him, voice trembling with need.

He went primal—his eyes dark, his breath ragged, the man transformed into something ancient and wild. I welcomed him, every inch, every thrust, every drop of honey he poured into me.

We didn't just fuck. We fused.

His breath tangled with mine, his body trembling with release, and I felt the heat of him spill deep inside me—slow, deliberate, sacred. We lay there, breathless, wrapped in the aftermath, the room thick with the scent of Sex and surrender. No words were needed. Just the quiet hum of jazz, the soft flicker of firelight, and the truth pulsing between us.

And as I lay there, slick with oil and aching with pleasure, I knew exactly what had happened.

He glazed me with his honey.