Chapter 18 #3
He took me back in before I could answer, deeper this time, and his hands pushed my thighs wider and his throat worked around me and I felt the orgasm building at the base of my spine with a velocity that had no patience in it.
He pulled back when I was close enough that my thighs were starting to tighten, and looked up at me with swollen lips and dark eyes.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Soren—”
“Not yet.” He kissed the inside of my thigh like a period at the end of a sentence, pressing his wet mouth to the hair there and staying for a moment like he was grounding himself as much as managing me.
His breathing was ragged. His chin was slick.
He looked like what he was and the sight of him like that was going to be a problem I'd be dealing with for a long time.
“I want to show you something first.”
“Show me—”
“Turn over.”
I turned over.
I heard him move on the mattress and then felt his hands on the backs of my thighs, warm and deliberate, and I pressed my face into the pillow and told my nervous system to stand down.
The position itself was its own thing to manage.
Face down, hips tipped up slightly by the angle of his hands, exposed in a way that had no analogue in any previous experience I could pull from.
My whole back was tight with the effort of staying still and not catastrophizing this into something it didn't have to be.
Then he pressed his palms to the backs of my thighs and spread them, easy and unhurried, and exhaled slow and warm against my skin.
“Fuck,” he said quietly. Not to me. Just to himself, or to the room, or to whatever he was looking at, and the specific reverence in his voice made my hands curl against the headboard.
“What?” I said into the pillow.
“Nothing.” A pause. The warmth of his breath moving closer. “You're just—” He pressed his lips to the top of my inner thigh and dragged them upward. “You're really something, Rook. That's all.”
I didn't know what to do with that so I said nothing, which was becoming a pattern.
He ran his thumbs inward along the crease where my thighs met my ass, and the specific exposure of that pulled a slow breath out of me that I let go into the pillow.
He pressed his lips to the base of my spine.
Then lower.
He stopped there a moment, and I felt his breath and then he made a low sound against my skin that wasn't quite a word but had the quality of one.
“Soren.” His name came out muffled in the pillow and not remotely controlled.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.” More breath than word. “Yes, don't stop.”
He didn't stop.
He pressed his mouth to me, open and warm, and the sensation was something I had no prior category for — not even close to anything I'd been braced against, nothing like what I'd imagined in the abstract.
It shot straight past my ability to stay detached in the first three seconds and kept going.
My hands found the headboard above me, and I heard the low sounds I was making into the pillow and couldn't do anything about them.
“Look at you.” He said, and his voice had gone rough and a little wondering
“Soren—”
“I mean it.” He pressed his lips there again, slower this time, taking his time in a way that made my thighs tremble.
“You're beautiful. You know that? Right here—” Another press of his mouth, open and warm and devastatingly patient.
“The hair, the way you're—” He exhaled against me and I felt it everywhere.
“You're fucking beautiful, Rook. I need you to know that.”
He worked slowly, learning what made my hips cant toward him versus what made me tighten up and pull away, and he went by that information like it was the only map he needed.
His hands were on the backs of my thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle there, and every time I moved he moved with me rather than against me.
The room was warm and close and smelled like hotel soap and skin and the specific musk of both of us in close proximity, and all of it together was too much sensory information to organize into anything rational.
“You taste—” He stopped himself, then didn't. “You smell so good. Fuck.” His voice had gone to gravel. “I've been thinking about this.”
“About—”
“About you. Under me. Like this.” He pressed his mouth to me again, lingering, and the wet sound of it and the heat of his breath at once made me grip the headboard hard enough that my knuckles went white. “About what you'd sound like.”
He pulled back slightly and I felt the cool air where he'd been and made an involuntary sound of protest that I would have been embarrassed about if I'd had any processing power left for embarrassment.
“There it is,” he said, warm and pleased and a little unsteady. “That's what I wanted to hear.”
He came back, deeper this time, and the sound I made into the pillow was not quiet. It had no pretense in it. It was just the direct output of what his mouth was doing to a part of me that apparently had a great deal to say once it was paid the right kind of attention.
“That's it,” Soren said against me, and the vibration of his voice went through me like current. “Don't hold that in. I want to hear you.”
I stopped trying to hold anything in.
The sounds that came out of me after that were the kind I was going to be unable to explain or reproduce on request. When my breathing went ragged he pressed deeper.
He was mapping me with his mouth and doing it methodically and the fact that I was completely incapable of managing my own responses didn't seem to concern either of us anymore.
“You're so responsive,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, and I could feel the warmth of his breath replacing the warmth of his mouth and the loss of contact was its own specific torment. “Every time I—” He pressed back in and I groaned into the pillow. “Yeah. Like that. Fuck, Rook.”
His hands slid from the backs of my thighs to my hips, gripping, steadying me or steadying himself, maybe both, and the pressure of his fingers in my skin was grounding and maddening in equal measure.
“Soren.” His name came out wrecked. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“More. I need—” I didn't have the vocabulary for what I needed. “More.”
He reached past me to where he'd set the lube on the nightstand — I heard the soft click of it — and then his hand was back, slicked and warm, and he pressed one finger against me slowly.
The sensation was new and strange and full in a way that made me tighten instinctively, and he waited. Just waited, patient as he'd been about everything else tonight, until I breathed out and felt myself ease around him.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That's good. You're doing so well.”
The praise hit me somewhere I hadn't been expecting. A hot pull under my sternum, low and urgent, and I pushed back against his hand without meaning to.
“Oh,” he said, and now there was real surprise in his voice under the roughness. “Yeah, okay. You like that.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed, low and warm against my spine, and pressed deeper. “You pushed back, Rook. I'm not making anything up.”
I had pushed back. I was aware of that. I was aware of most things happening to my body in a granular, immediate way while being completely unable to translate any of it into composed behavior, and his voice in my ear being warm and genuinely pleased about it wasn't making that any easier.
He worked me open with his mouth and his hand together, and the combination of the two was something my nervous system simply had no prior framework for.
The stretch of his finger and the wet press of his tongue at once, the layered sensation of being attended to so completely, pulled sounds out of me that went beyond what the pillow could contain.
By the time he added a second finger I was past coherent language.
“Right there,” I said, or something that was meant to be that.
“I know,” he said. “I've got it.”
He did. He very much did.
“You're gorgeous like this,” he said against my spine, between the movement of his fingers inside me. He pressed deeper and I made a sound that had no consonants in it.
He worked me open with his fingers and his mouth until my whole body was shaking with the sustained effort of staying in position, and then he pulled back and pressed his lips to my spine and stayed there a moment.
“Roll back over,” he said.
I rolled over.
The ceiling of the hotel room was white and unremarkable and I stared at it for a moment while my body tried to reorient itself from everything it had just experienced.
My thighs were still trembling faintly. My hands were sore from the headboard.
I felt hollowed out and rewired at the same time, like something had been taken apart and reassembled slightly differently and I hadn't been consulted about the new configuration.
Then Soren moved up the bed and swung one knee over my hips and sat back on his heels above me, and the trembling in my thighs got worse.
He looked down at me for a moment without touching me.
Just looked. His chest was heaving slightly and his hair was a wreck and his lips were swollen from everything his mouth had been doing, and the red lace thong was sitting exactly where it had been sitting for the past hour, still barely functional, still doing nothing to conceal how hard he was.
The fabric was strained tight across him, the outline of his cock pressed against the lace in a way that made my mouth go dry, and there was a damp patch darkening the front of it that hadn't been there before.
He was leaking through the fabric. Had been for a while, from the look of it.
“You're staring,” he said.
“You're wearing red lace and sitting on me.” I met his eyes. “I'm going to stare.”
His face went warm and a little unsteady. He dropped his gaze from mine, and then he put both hands flat on my chest and the warmth of them hit me all at once.