Chapter 180 Your Clit Is So Swollen For Me
I walked into the recovery room at exactly 9:00, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. The door was already ajar, and when I pushed it open, the air felt thicker—dimmer lights, soft mats covering most of the floor, full-length mirrors on three walls so there was nowhere to hide. A single lock clicked behind me when Jax turned the deadbolt. The sound made my stomach flip.
He was waiting, leaning against the wall in black compression shorts and a sleeveless hoodie unzipped halfway down his chest. Sweat already gleamed on his collarbones. His eyes dragged over me slow, starting at my bare midriff, lingering on the tiny workout shorts I’d chosen this morning—gray, high-cut, the kind that rode up the second I moved—and ending on my sports bra that barely contained my tits. I felt naked already.
“Morning, Lara,” he said, voice low and rough like he’d been smoking something illegal. “Ready to go deeper today?”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak. My pussy was already slick just from hearing him say my name. I’d spent the whole night tossing, thighs pressed together, replaying yesterday’s touches until I had to shove my hand between my legs at 3 a.m. and rub myself raw thinking about his fingers. Now here he was, real and huge and looking at me like I was food.
“Lie down on the mat,” he told me. “Butterfly stretch first. Knees open, soles together, let gravity do the work.”
I dropped to the mat, sat with my legs bent, feet pressed together, knees falling wide. The shorts pulled tight immediately, the seam digging right into my clit. I could feel how swollen I already was—lips puffy, slick coating the inside of the fabric. Jax knelt between my legs, close enough that his knees bracketed my hips. His hands settled on the insides of my thighs, thumbs pressing gently but firmly, pushing my knees down farther.
“Breathe,” he murmured. “Open those hips. Good girl.”
The praise hit me like a slap of heat. My clit throbbed hard against the seam. I bit my lip, trying to focus on breathing, but every exhale came out shaky. His palms were so warm, callused in the right places, sliding higher inch by inch until his thumbs were right at the crease where thigh met groin. Then one thumb—deliberate, slow—brushed the edge of my shorts, grazing the outer lip of my pussy through the thin material.
I gasped. My hips jerked up without permission.
“Easy,” he said, but he didn’t move his hand. Instead he hooked a finger under the leg hole of my shorts and tugged the fabric aside—just enough to expose me. Cool air hit my wet folds and I whimpered. “Just checking alignment. Your pelvis is tilted forward. Need to see how your muscles respond.”
His voice stayed calm, almost clinical, but his eyes were dark and hungry. He dragged one thick finger along my slit, collecting the slick that was already dripping out of me. I was so wet it made a soft, obscene sound when he circled my entrance.
“Your walls are clenching so rhythmically,” he said, sliding one finger inside me slow and deep. “Perfect muscle memory. This level of natural lubrication… outstanding hormonal health. You’re responding exactly how a healthy pussy should.”
I moaned—couldn’t stop it. The sound bounced off the mirrors. He added a second finger, stretching me, twisting them as he pushed in to the knuckles. My pussy fluttered around him, greedy, sucking him deeper. He curled them, fingertips dragging over that spongy spot inside that made my toes curl and my back arch off the mat.
“Oh God,” I whispered. “We shouldn’t… I’m married…”
“Shh,” he said, thumb finding my clit and circling slow. “This is just form correction. Your body needs this release. Look how swollen your clit is already. So responsive.”