He feels stupid. He's caved in, again. But how can he resist when you make the prettiest noises, your skirt bunched up around your waist while his head is buried between your thighs? He thinks he could do this for eternity. Hell, if he were to die right now he'd die a happy man.

"Feel good, baby?" He asks, breath hot against your skin, eyes looking up to see how you're doing. You look ethereal. Like a little angel, all wrecked and messy, panting heavily. And he's the one causing that.

He doesn't care what people say anymore. Yes, he knows he's too old for you and yes, maybe this relationship isn't the most appropriate, but he'll leave those thoughts for when he's alone at night and feeling the weight of the guilt in his chest. Right now, his focus is on making his pretty princess cry out his name like he knows only he can.