If you had the choice of licking my pussy now or fucking it but a week from now, which would you choose?

The question hangs in the air like heat, and your eyes drop before your answer forms. She's already decided something about you — watching your hesitation, reading the want you're trying to organize into logic.

A week feels geological right now. Seven days of knowing exactly what's waiting, that specific warmth, that particular softness pressed against your mouth versus your hips. Both options cost you something.

Your tongue remembers things your body hasn't done yet. The immediate choice pulls harder — tasting her, feeling her fingers tighten in your hair, earning the sounds she makes before anything else begins.