Chapter 18 #2
He removed his hand from where I desperately needed it and moved up my body instead, and I swallowed back the objection because he was right and I had said that and he was apparently going to hold me to it.
His hands replaced his mouth, palming up the outside of my thighs, running through the hair there with a deliberate slowness that shouldn't have been as good as it was.
He pressed both hands flat to my stomach, dragged them up through the hair on my abdomen, and the friction of his palms against skin that hadn't been touched like this by anyone in a long time made my cock throb with a sustained heaviness that was going to be a real problem.
He pressed his thumbs into the muscle of my hips. “How long has it been since someone took care of you?”
I thought about that honestly. “Define care.”
He looked at me. “Since someone actually paid attention.”
I didn't answer, which was an answer.
He pressed his lips to my stomach, just below my navel, and the hair there was coarse against his mouth but he didn't pull away from it, just dragged his lips through it slow and deliberate, and I stopped trying to catalogue what was happening and let my eyes fall shut.
He kissed up my stomach, my ribs, the flat of my chest, the hollow of my throat.
Not rushing any of it. Going by sound, adjusting when my breathing snagged or my hands went tight in the duvet, learning what I couldn't tell him with words because I didn't have words for most of it.
When he pressed his open mouth to the curve of my pectoral, to the hair there, and ran his tongue once against my skin, I felt the sound I made go right through the mattress.
“You're so fucking responsive,” he said against my chest, and it came out warm and a little wondering. “You know that? You're acting like you're holding yourself together and meanwhile your whole body is giving you away.”
“That's—”
“It's good.” He pressed his lips to my sternum. “It's really good, Rook. You don't have to manage it.”
I let out a breath I'd been holding somewhere around my collarbone and felt my shoulders drop an inch toward the mattress.
He moved back up my body and kissed my stomach, my ribs, the flat of my chest, the hollow of my throat.
Cataloguing, I realized. Building a map of what made my breathing change.
And it was working with an efficiency that should have been embarrassing and somehow wasn't, because he was doing it with so much genuine attention that there was no room to feel anything except the attention itself.
I got my hands into his hair. His eyes came up to mine.
“Tell me what you want,” he said.
“I don't know what there is.”
The corner of his mouth moved. “Then let me pick.”
He kissed me once, thorough and unhurried, and then moved down my body with a clear destination in mind.
He got his fingers into the waistband of my boxer briefs and looked up at me and waited. I lifted my hips and he pulled the fabric down and off and dropped it somewhere, and then the cool air of the room hit me and his eyes moved over me and his jaw worked once.
Not the same as before, when he'd looked at me through the cotton. This was different. This was the full picture, unmediated, and whatever composure he'd been managing with such apparent ease took a visible hit.
He wrapped one hand around the base of me, loose and exploratory, and his throat moved. “You're a lot. I thought I'd clocked that already but I was wrong.”
His hand tightened, and the slow, measuring stroke he gave me pulled a sound out of my chest I hadn't been warned about.
He pressed his lips to my hip instead, the jut of it, and dragged them inward. His stubble caught in the trail of hair running down from my navel and he didn't avoid it, just pressed his mouth through it that made my hand in his hair tighten before I caught myself loosening it.
“Don't,” he said against my skin. “Don't loosen it. I want you to.”
I tightened my hand in his hair and he made an approving sound that vibrated against my thigh and went everywhere at once.
He took his time getting there. That was the thing I hadn't been prepared for. He pressed his lips to the base of me without taking me in, just warmth and pressure and the scrape of his jaw, and the sound I made into the ceiling was not controlled in any way.
“There,” he said against me, and it was soft and pleased. “That's the one.”
Then he took me into his mouth.
The wet heat of it hit me all at once and my hips moved up before I could catch them, hand going tight in his hair, and I felt him take it — felt him take more of me than I'd expected, working me deeper with a slow, deliberate pull that had my thighs trembling and my back going rigid against the mattress.
He was good at this. He was extraordinarily, specifically good at this, and the difference between knowing that abstractly and experiencing it firsthand was significant enough that I lost several seconds to just feeling the slide of his tongue along the underside of me, the careful pressure of his lips, the way he breathed through his nose and settled his weight like he was comfortable here, like this was somewhere he intended to stay for a while.
He pulled back slowly, and when he released me the sound was wet and obscene and the cool air hit the saliva coating me and made me twitch.
He looked up at me. His lips were swollen and slick, chin glistening, and the picture of him like that — mouth used and wet, looking up at me from between my thighs with his hair a mess from my hand — did something to me I was going to have to reckon with later.
“You good?” he asked.
“I need you to keep going.” My voice came out unrecognizable.
He smiled, slow and a little wrecked around the edges, and then he licked a long stripe up the underside of me from root to tip and I made an embarrassingly broken sound that bounced off the walls of the hotel room.
He worked me properly after that. Long, thorough strokes with his tongue, alternating with the wet pull of taking me in, going deeper each time in a way that felt like he was learning how to do it, calibrating, adjusting for the size of me with a focused patience that made my whole chest tight.
My thighs were on either side of his head, the hair on them pressed against his cheeks and jaw, and he didn't pull away from any of it.
He turned his face into my inner thigh between strokes and pressed his lips there and I felt stubble and warmth and the wet smear of his own mouth against my skin and it was so much, so specifically intimate and filthy all at once, that I had to press my free hand flat against the mattress and breathe.
“Soren.”
He hummed around me in response, and the vibration of it travelled up my spine and blew a fuse somewhere behind my eyes.
He was getting messy with it. I could feel it — the way his mouth was running wet, saliva slicking down to his fingers where they wrapped around my base, dripping to my thighs.
He didn't seem to mind. He seemed to actively not mind, making low sounds of his own against me that suggested he was getting as much out of this as I was, which was a concept I couldn't process while he was currently doing what he was doing to the back of my brain.
He pulled off again, and when he looked up at me this time his chin was wet and his lips were flushed and there was a long, gleaming thread of spit connecting his mouth to the tip of me that broke when he shifted his angle, and I stopped trying to think rationally about anything at all.
“You have no idea,” he said, and his voice had gone rough and a little undone, “how long I've been—” He didn't finish the sentence.
He wrapped his fist around me and stroked slowly, watching his own hand work, and his jaw was tight with something he was keeping close.
“You're so fucking thick, Rook. I can barely—” He opened his mouth and proved that he could, taking me deep enough that his eyes watered slightly, and the muffled, desperate sound he made around me when he hit the limit of it went straight through me like a blade.
My hand tightened in his hair without any instruction from me. He groaned, low and wanting, and the grip he had on my base tightened in answer.
“Do it,” he said when he pulled back, and his voice was wrecked in a way I hadn't heard from him yet, all the steadiness dissolved. He looked up at me with his lips parted and wet and his chest heaving and said, “Rook. Push me down. I want you to fuck my face.”
The room went very still for a second.
“You sure—”
“I asked, didn't I?” His eyes were dark and direct and completely certain. “Don't be careful right now. I'll tell you if I need you to stop.”
I looked at him for one more second. Then I tightened my grip in his hair, and I pushed.
He took it. He took all of it, the full, slow slide down until his lips were pressed against his own fingers and his throat was working around me and the sounds he was making were muffled and ruined.
His hands came up to grip my thighs, not pushing me away but steadying himself against me, fingers pressing into the muscle there, and I held the back of his head and set a slow rhythm that had every muscle in my body pulled taut.
The wet sounds of it filled the room. His mouth was slick and open and he was dripping, genuinely dripping, saliva running down over his fingers and onto the inside of my thigh, and every time I pushed him down he made a sound against me that vibrated through to my spine and bypassed thinking entirely.
“Soren.” My voice had completely vacated the premises of composed. “I'm not going to last if you—”
He pulled back enough to breathe, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a way that was somehow the most annihilating thing he'd done yet, and looked up at me with dark, wet eyes and a jaw that was still working.
“Good,” he said, hoarse. “That's the point.”