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Sanji just won’t shut up.
Not that you particularly mind, of course, because the honey that drips from his lips is always extra sweet; you’d bathe in it if you could, let every last drop of every exquisite exultation soak into your skin. There are some nights, however, as you’re bouncing in his lap, your breasts pressed against his broad, muscled chest, your arms thrown haphazardly around his shoulders, when you wish he’d just shut up.
“You’re so beautiful, so lovely,” he mumbles into your neck, strands of blonde hair tickling your jawline. “God you feel so good, sweetheart. I never want to take my hands off you.”
You offer a quick “Mmm” to acknowledge him as you close your eyes and tilt your head back, focusing on the growing ache in your core and the way you’re starting to feel like piano wire wound too tightly, growing ever more desperate to find release.
“Fuck, your body is so perfect to me, my love,” he moans, his hands cupping your breasts as they move against his palms. He runs his thumbs over your pebbled nipples, sighing “Your tits are so soft, god they feel incredible in my hands.”
“You’re so sweet to me,” you sigh as you increase your pace and try to quiet your mind. You’ll never get tired of hearing how beautiful you are, how much he loves the feeling of your soft body pressed against him, how your pussy feels like velvet as he lazily thrusts up into you and takes in every flutter of your soft walls. But when you’re so close to your peak, trying to focus your lust-fogged brain on pushing yourself over the edge—sometimes the words are just too much, too distracting.
You try to keep his lips busy with kisses—hasty, messy kisses, tongues tangled between your parted lips. But even then, he still murmurs words of adoration into your hungry mouth—how much he delights in the passion of your kisses, and how he adores the way your lips taste, and how every brush of your needy mouth against his makes him feverish and frenzied.
It isn’t until you finally have the idea to shove your arousal-soaked panties in his mouth that he—miraculously, incredibly—shuts up. He pulses inside your drenched cunt uncontrollably as he drinks in the taste of you on his tongue, inhales your heady fragrance from the fabric that hangs on his lips, and at long last his steady flow of praise is reduced to nothing but agonized moans and whimpers as you fuck yourself on his throbbing cock, leaving him whiny and aching as the waves of pleasure begin to claim you.