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Solas has both arms hooked around her thighs, his face buried in her cunt, and it's all Eira can do to brace herself against the headboard.
It’s an overwhelming volley of sensation: the tingling hum of his voice when he moans, the wet warmth of his tongue. He sucks on her clit with lazy persistence. Eira moans, gasps, until the muscles in her thighs give out.
She manages, barely, to catch herself before she slams down on Solas’s face—breathes out an apology as she rights herself. He presses his mouth to the inside of her thigh. “Tel'abelas,” he says, his voice low and breathy. “You will not hurt me.”
Then he drags her thighs down and moans deliciously against her clit when she gasps. It's easy, then, to stop worrying about suffocating him; if the sounds he's making are anything to go by, he's enjoying this just as much as she is.
She loves his mouth. It's difficult now to think about anything else. His lips, his tongue, the way he kisses her, the way he's devouring her now with the passion of a man starving.
And that's where Solas holds her, steady, until she loses herself at last.