Let Me Tae Care of You

Let Me Take Care of You: With My Mouth

✨💕✨

He doesn't ask what she saw.

Doesn't say a word about the titles on the shelf, the ones her eyes lingered on a moment too long.

She's still holding the silence like a glass vase--careful not to drop it. Unsure if it's meant to be passed back or smashed to the floor.

But he doesn't reach for it. Doesn't reach for her.

He just says:

"Come sit. Tea's almost ready."

And offers her his hand.

She takes it.

Not fast. Not brave. Just sure enough to mean it.

They move down the hallway, past the living room where the blanket still holds the shape of her body. The kettle is just starting to hum in the kitchen. He moves like a man who's done this a thousand times--quiet, measured, without needing her help or permission.

The tea is loose leaf. The pot already warm. Her mug--the blue one--is waiting by the stove.

He pours without asking. The scent rises: not chamomile, maybe mint, something grounding she doesn't recognize.

"Go sit," he says again. Not dismissive. Just gentle.

"I'll be right there."

So she does.

The front door clicks softly behind her as she makes her way to the garden.

It's early. Dew-slick. Quiet.

The air is cool against her thighs, and the bench is still in shadow.

Their bench.

She lowers herself slowly, fingers tight around the hem of her shirt. She curls one leg beneath her and rests the other on the stones, grounding herself in something solid.

When he joins her a moment later, he carries two mugs. Hers is still steaming.

He sets it down without a word.

And sits beside her like he's done so many times before.

They don't speak at first. It's not unusual for them, though. To sit in silence.

The warmth of the mug in her hands is familiar, but something inside her isn't settling.

She turns the cup in small circles, breathing in the steam, trying to find the version of herself that used to fit on this bench.

She's not sure she can.

Finally, without looking up, she says:

"Are we doing something?"

His voice is calm.

"What do you mean?"

She swallows.

"I mean... this. Us."

"I don't want to lose what this has been. I don't want to mess it up."

Her voice is thin. Tight.

She keeps going, afraid that if she stops, he'll say the one thing she couldn't bear to hear.

"But last night... what we did... what I asked you for--"

"I don't know how to go back to just tea after that."

She finally looks up.

"And I'm scared if I want more, I'll lose everything."

He sets his mug down carefully on the bench. Turns to face her.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, "you don't have to choose right now."

A pause.

"But if you do... you can have both."

She blinks.

"Both?"

"Tea and gardening. This bench. My company. All of it."

Another pause.

"And more, if you want more. But only if you want it. There's no part of this I need from you. Its only want, desire."

"You can keep coming here and letting me take care of your compost and your tea and your quiet."

"Or you can let me tuck you in and touch you until you fall apart in my hands again."

"You're not going to lose me either way."

She breathes out--a sound that's more ache than relief.

"What if I ruin it anyway?" she whispers.

"What if I am too much?"

He doesn't flinch.

"Then we make a rule."

She turns to him, eyes shining.

"A rule?"

"The first one," he nods.

"You're not allowed to explain why you need something. You just tell me what you need and we figure it out together."

She goes still.

"But... what if I don't even know?"

"Even better," he says, with a soft smile.

"Then you can just say 'I need you, Daddy', and I'll know what to do."

"You don't have to earn care here. Not anymore."

She sets her mug down. Her hands are steady now.

She turns toward him.

"I think I want both."

He meets her gaze without hesitation.

"Good," he says, and reaches for her hand.

"Because I've wanted both too. For a long time. It's been far too long since I've had a little flower like you to tend to. This old man is going to help you bloom, my babygirl. Into whatever it is you want to be."

⸻

They didn't talk about the rule again.

Not directly.

But it lived between them now--

a quiet permission.

She didn't have to explain why she lingered by the compost longer than usual.

Or why she froze when her hands brushed the inside of a gardening glove and found it still damp.

He didn't ask.

Just passed her a dry pair and turned the wheelbarrow toward the rosemary.

They worked side by side, slow and unhurried.

The sun came and went behind a high pale cloud.

When her hair stuck to her forehead, he pulled a clean rag from his back pocket and dabbed it gently.

"You've got dirt on your cheek," he murmured, attempting to wipe it off.

⸻

Lunch was leftovers. A sandwich split diagonally.

She took the bigger half without thinking.

He grinned and bit into the smaller one like it was always meant for him.

After, she dozed on the couch while he folded laundry beside her.

She drifted in and out to the sound of cotton being snapped and stacked, his low hum barely audible over the breeze.

At one point, she rolled toward him.

Let her fingers curl around the hem of his shirt.

He didn't stop folding.

But when she opened her eyes again,

she was covered in the blanket from last night.

In the afternoon, she showered.

Came out in one of his t-shirts--clean, soft, pale grey.

It hung almost to her knees.

He was already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, forearms wet. Washing their breakfast and lunch dishes.

When he looked up and saw her--bare legs, bare face, that shirt--

he paused.

Just for a second.

But long enough.

Her cheeks flushed. She looked away.

He didn't speak.

Just passed her a mug of water and turned back to the cutting board.

Dinner was simple--but good.

Pan-roasted chicken thighs with lemon and thyme.

New potatoes, smashed and crisped in the skillet.

Green beans with garlic and butter, still a little snap to them.

He let her slice the lemon. She let him pick the music.

They moved around each other in the kitchen like they'd done it for years.

They ate on the porch with their bare feet on the step.

She dipped her potatoes in the buttery chicken juices.

He passed her a folded napkin without a word.

When she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder, he didn't move.

Later, as the sky purpled behind the trees, he stood and offered her his hand.

"You're welcome to stay," he said.

"Spare room or mine?"

She paused. Breath catching in her chest.

Then quietly:

"Yours. If that's alright."

He dried his hands. Turned to face her fully.

"It's more than alright."

----

The bedroom was dim, lamp already on. The soft sheets, the turned-down covers. Her blue mug from that morning now sat clean on the nightstand, waiting like a promise.

He waited near the doorway as she climbed in. Didn't undress. Didn't assume.

But when she looked up at him and whispered,

"Will you touch me again?"

"Like last time... but more?"--

He exhaled like she'd handed him something sacred.

"Of course I will."

He sat beside her. Let his fingers trace her jaw, her collarbone, the curve of her stomach beneath his t-shirt--, soft and too big and now hers in a way neither of them could deny.

"Still okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

"I want to feel it again. But slower. I want to remember it."

His hand slid down her thigh, warm and open.

"Lie back, babygirl," he said softly.

"Let me show you what it's like when someone wants to take their time with you."

He kissed his way down her body.

Not hurried.

Mouth to her shoulder. Her sternum. Her hip.

And then he knelt on the floor.

"Lift your hips for me."

She did.

He slid the shorts down slowly, watching her breathe. Watched her knees soften open. Watched her thighs part like they'd been waiting all day.

"Look at you," he murmured. "Already wet again."

Her breath hitched.

"I've been thinking about this all day," she whispered.

He smiled.

"Good."

"Can I... touch you too? After this part." she asked, soft but sure.

He caught her hand in his. Brought it to his lips. Kissed her knuckles slowly.

"Not tonight," he said gently.

"This is all for you. You don't have to take care of me to be worthy of this."

Her eyes filled. Her body stilled.

She nodded, and he smiled.

"That's my good girl."

And then he was there.

Mouth between her legs.

Tongue slow and sure, no hesitation.

He moaned softly into her like he meant it.

She gasped.

Not because it was shocking.

Because it was perfect.

He licked her like he was memorizing her.

Not just to make her cum--but to say, I want this. I want you. I want to know you this way.

His hands were steady at her thighs. His tongue--broad, warm, precise--circled and pressed, then flicked gently until she was trembling.

She came once.

Hard. Sharp. The kind of orgasm that rips through you without warning, spine arching off the mattress, hands fisting the sheets like her body was afraid it would disappear if she let go.

Her legs trembled.

Her breath caught.

And still--he didn't stop.

He just licked her through it--slow, steady swirls, lips soft and sure, like her pleasure was a language only he spoke. His fingers never moved to replace his mouth. His hands didn't wander. He stayed right there, mouth sealed to her cunt like a promise.

And then something shifted.

The tension broke.

Her body opened again--less sharp this time, more needy.

She moaned, high and helpless, as the second one began to build.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like a tide rolling in beneath her skin.

His tongue circled her clit with maddening precision, pausing only to flatten and drag slowly through her folds, gathering every drop of slick like it was meant to feed him.

"Daddy--" she gasped, not even meaning to say it.

He groaned into her.

Her hips rolled.

She couldn't stop them.

Couldn't do anything except let it happen--let him keep pulling her deeper into the warmth of it, the helpless need of it, the place inside her that had never felt this full.

This orgasm didn't crash.

It flooded.

It surged up from her belly and spilled out through her chest, her throat, her cunt--every part of her shaking, aching, pulsing around the rhythm of his tongue.

She cried out.

Loud this time.

And he moaned against her again, the sound vibrating straight through her clit.

"Ohmygod--please--I can't--"

Her legs twitched violently. Her hands clawed at the sheets. Her thighs tried to close around his head and he held them open, not roughly--just firm. Just like he knew she didn't mean it.

"Please--please--please--"

Only then did he lift his head.

Not fast.

Not like it was over.

Like it was finished--for now.

He kissed the crease of her thigh, just above the place she was still pulsing.

Then again, lower.

Then a third time, just over her mound--not her clit.

Then he whispered:

"That's my girl."

And tucked her back into bed.

Her body open and undone.

His still aching.

But not expecting.

⸻

She woke slowly.

The room was dark, still. A warm weight of blankets against her thighs. The faint outline of a dresser across the room. His pillow smelled like cedar and mint.

The ache between her legs hadn't faded.

Not pain--need.

Something softer now. Not urgency, but pull.

Her body felt warm. Open. Quiet.

The house was silent--except for the sound of running water.

Her eyes drifted toward the door. Light spilled in underneath, golden and still.

It wasn't raining.

That was the shower.

She sat up, pulling the blanket with her. The cotton sleep shorts he'd lent her stuck slightly to the inside of her thighs. She was wet again. Not soaked--but warm and slick and alive.

She padded toward the door, heart already thudding.

She wasn't scared. Just aware.

She didn't mean to peek.

She told herself that.

But when she reached the doorway and saw the steam curling into the hall, she paused.

And then she looked.

Steam billowed out around her, curling through the hall. The mirror was fogged. The air smelled like heat and him.

The shower curtain was half-open.

And he was inside.

One hand braced against the wall.

The other wrapped around the base of his cock.

Slow strokes. Deep. Measured.

Eyes closed. Brow tight. Breath shallow.

He wasn't rough. Wasn't needy.

He was trying not to need at all.

Her breath caught.

Not from shock.

Not from shame.

Just from the intimacy of it.

The man who'd kissed her thighs like a prayer.

Who had whispered, "You don't owe me this."

Who had licked her until she begged, then tucked her in like she was precious.

He hadn't taken anything.

He'd gone without.

And now, alone, he was unraveling himself. Quietly. Carefully. Without asking for help.

She stepped inside.

He didn't hear her at first--until her hand met the curtain.

His eyes snapped open. His breath stuttered.

"Sweetheart--"

"Shit, I didn't think you--"

She reached for him.

Not his cock.

His wrist.

"Let me."

His eyes searched hers.

"You don't have to--"

"I know."

"You didn't take from me."

"You took care of me."

"Now let me take care of you."

He didn't speak. Just stood there. Water streaming over his shoulders, his chest, his thighs. His cock still thick and heavy in his hand.

She sank to her knees.

The tile was warm beneath her. Steam clung to her skin. Her heart thundered, but not from fear.

From the rightness of it.

He reached for her hair, hesitated. She nodded.

So he gathered it gently, tucked it over her shoulder.

When her lips brushed the tip of him, his whole body tensed.

"Jesus," he whispered. "That mouth..."

She licked slowly--once, from base to tip--then took him into her mouth, steady and deep, letting her tongue press along the underside the way she imagined he'd like. The way she would like, if he were her.

And in that moment, he was.

He groaned--low, barely contained.

His hips rocked once. Then again.

But he held still for her. Let her set the rhythm.

"Sweetheart... fuck. That's it."

"Just like that. God, you're perfect."

She moaned around him, as he cursed--hands finding her cheeks, then her hair, then the tile behind him as if afraid to grip too tightly.

She pulled back just enough to breathe.

"Don't hold back," she whispered.

"You're allowed to want me too."

His eyes fluttered shut.

"You'll undo me," he said, voice cracking.

She smiled.

"Good."

She took him deeper this time. Let her mouth relax, her throat open, her hands steady against his hips. One hand cradled his balls, rolling gently. The other rested against his thigh, anchoring them both.

His breath quickened.

"Fuck... sweetheart, I'm close--"

"I can't--fuck, I don't want to--"

But she didn't stop.

She wanted this.

Wanted to feel him fall apart.

Wanted to be the one he didn't have to hold back from.

So when he came--hard, hot, spilling into her mouth with a guttural groan--she took every drop.

Held it.

Swallowed.

Then pressed her cheek to his thigh, eyes closed, breath heavy with steam and silence.

He sank to his knees in front of her.

Cradled her face in his hands like he might cry.

Didn't speak for a long moment.

Then finally:

"No one's ever done that for me. Not like that."

She didn't say anything.

She just leaned forward, forehead against his chest, hands wrapped around his waist.

And he held her there.

Water still falling.

Steam still rising.

His body warm and shaking in her arms.

Eventually, he helped her up.

Dried her gently. Carried her back to bed.

Tucked her in like she was the most precious thing he'd ever held.

He slid in beside her, not touching--just close.

After a while, she felt his hand brush hers beneath the blanket.

Not asking. Just there.

And then, in the dark:

"You undo me, sweetheart."

A confession. A surrender.

Not loud. Not brave. Just real.

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

✨ Author Note:

This one's for the girls who were too strong for too long.

For the ones who learned how to survive before they were ever held.

He doesn't push. He doesn't punish.

He just wants her to feel safe. To be soft. To be okay. 💗

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