Chapter 18 #5
I reached for the lube where it had ended up on the nightstand, got my fingers slicked, and pressed one against his entrance.
The sound he made around my cock was muffled and devastated and vibrated through me from the base up.
“You good?” I said against his skin, and my voice was rough enough I barely recognized it.
He pulled off me long enough to say, “If you stop right now I will actually—” and then whatever threat he was forming got cut off when I pressed my finger in and worked it slowly, and what came out of him instead was a low, drawn-out groan that he buried back against my inner thigh.
I kept my mouth on him and my finger working in steady, unhurried strokes, going by the sounds he made rather than any script.
He was tight and warm around my finger, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that matched what my mouth was doing, and every time I pressed deeper his hips rolled back and he made a sound that stripped another layer off whatever restraint I'd arrived here with.
“You're so tight,” I said against him. “Fuck. Soren.” I pressed deeper and felt him take it and the sound he made went through me like voltage. “This is what you're going to feel like when I'm inside you.”
He groaned and the hand he had gripping the base of my cock tightened convulsively.
“Say that again,” he said, voice completely wrecked.
“You heard me.”
“Rook—”
“This is mine.” I pressed my mouth to him again, open and claiming, and his whole body went loose and then rigid. “This pretty hole. Mine.”
He made a sound that had no words in it and took me deeper in retaliation and I had to close my eyes and breathe and focus very hard on not losing the thread entirely.
I added a second finger, working him slowly open, and felt the stretch of it make him go still for a half-second before his body decided it wanted more. His hips rolled back, chasing the sensation, and I pulled back slightly just to hear the noise that came out of him.
It was a very good noise.
“Please,” he said, and the word was raw and immediate. “Please, Rook, don't—”
“Don't what?”
“Don't tease. I can't—” He exhaled against my thigh, shaking.
I pressed back in with both fingers and I felt him open around me and take it.
He dropped his forehead to the top of my thigh and just breathed for a second, his hand still wrapped around me, and I felt his pulse in my fingers where they were pressed inside him — fast and real and as wrecked as mine.
Then he lifted his head and took me back into his mouth and we stopped talking.
What followed was mutual and relentless and had nothing managed about it on either side.
He sucked me with the focused desperation, and I worked him with my fingers and my mouth in slow counterpoint, learning every sound he made and what produced it, and the room filled with the sounds of both of us completely offline and entirely present.
At one point he pulled back and said, breathless and a little undone, “You're unbelievable.
You know that? You're supposed to be— I'm the one who—” He lost the sentence when I curled my fingers and found the angle that made his thighs lock either side of my head.
“Fuck. There. Right there. Don't you dare move.”
I didn't move.
“Rook.” His voice cracked completely. “I'm going to need you to—” He reached back and got a hand over mine where it was gripping his hip. Not pushing it away. Pressing it harder. “I need you inside me. I need it right now.”
I pressed my lips once more to the inside of his cheek, warm and deliberate, and felt him shudder.
“Then turn around,” I said.
He turned around.
The shift of his weight on the mattress, the easy grace of him repositioning.
He knelt between my thighs and looked down at me and his chest was heaving and his hair was wrecked and he had never in my life looked like that before, open and undone and entirely certain, and I had to press the back of my head into the pillow and breathe.
He reached for the lube.
He slicked his palm and wrapped both hands around me, slow and thorough, coating me from base to tip with a focused attention that made my toes curl into the mattress. He took his time with it. More time than was strictly necessary for the task, which I suspected was deliberate.
He pressed his thumb along the underside of me, root to crown, and the sound I made confirmed that whatever composure I'd recovered in the last thirty seconds was already gone.
He shifted up onto his knees, one hand still wrapped around my base, and positioned himself above me.
“Look at me,” I said.
He met my eyes.
“If it's too much—”
“It won't be.” He held my gaze and sank down an inch, and the slick heat of the first contact made both of us go completely still.
He breathed out through his nose. His thighs were trembling faintly either side of mine, and I put both hands on them — not directing, not pushing, just there, the way he'd been there for me — and felt the muscle shake under my palms.
“There you go,” I said, and I barely recognized my own voice. “Take what you can.”
He sank another inch and the sound that left him was low and sustained and pressed against every nerve ending I had. He was so tight around me, tight and hot and gripping, and the restraint of holding still while he worked himself down in small increments was costing me something considerable.
“Fuck,” he said, half a breath.
“I've got you.” I squeezed his thighs. “You're okay. Take your time.”
He did. He worked himself down in slow stages, rocking slightly, adjusting the angle, breathing through each increment with his eyes fixed on my face like I was something he needed to keep in sight. And I watched him take me fully.
The fullness of being completely inside him was staggering. I pressed my molars together and breathed through my nose and kept my hands flat and steady on his thighs and did not move, because he needed a moment and I was going to give it to him even if it ended me.
“Okay,” he said eventually, very quietly. “Okay. That's—” He rolled his hips once, testing, and the sound that came out of him wasn't quiet at all. “That's a lot.”
“Too much?”
“The opposite of too much.” He rolled his hips again, and this time I felt it move through my whole spine. “The complete opposite.”
Then I noticed the state of him — hard and flushed and curved thick against his stomach, leaking at the tip, and the size of him was its own revelation up close.
He was substantial. Thick and heavy against his abdomen, and the visual of that while he was seated fully on me did things to my thought process that rendered organized thinking temporarily impossible.
I wrapped my hand around him.
The sound he made was immediate and punched-out, hips bucking forward into my grip before he caught himself, which meant he tightened around me at the same time, and we both made sounds simultaneously that bounced off the hotel ceiling.
“Rook—”
“I've got you,” I said. “Move.”
He moved.
The rhythm he found was slow at first, rolling rather than bouncing, his hands braced on my chest and his head tipped back and his throat working around sounds he'd stopped trying to contain.
I stroked him in time with his hips, matching the pace he set, and felt him shudder every time the angle hit something that made his breath snag.
His thighs were doing real work on either side of me, the muscle in them flexing with each roll of his hips, and the lace border of the stockings pressed against my flanks and the contrast of the delicate fabric and the very real physical effort of what he was doing was almost funny in the best way.
“You feel incredible,” I said, and my voice had gone low and stripped of everything performative. “You know that? The way you take me.” I tightened my grip on him and he moaned openly. “Look at you.”
He looked at me instead, dropping his chin, and his eyes were dark and blown and completely undefended.
“Don't stop talking,” he said.
“I wasn't planning to.” I thrust up to meet him and his rhythm stuttered. “This is mine, Soren. You're mine. Say it.”
His breath came out in a rush. “Yours.”
“Again.”
“Yours.” He sank down harder. “Rook, I'm — I need more. I need—”
I sat up, one arm coming around his back, and rolled us.
He hit the mattress with a sound of surprise that dissolved fast into something hungrier when my weight settled over him. I pulled out enough that he made a protesting noise, and then I got both hands on his hips and turned him.
He went easily, reading the intent, and then he was on his hands and knees in front of me and I sat back on my heels and just looked.
The view from here was something I was going to carry for a long time.
The curve of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders tapering to his waist, and his ass — round and full and smooth.
The lace tops of the stockings framed his thighs below.
He was flushed all the way down his back and breathing hard, and I pressed both palms to the curves of him and squeezed and heard him make a low, wanting sound into the pillow.
My thumbs spread him slightly and the sound he made went up a register. I pressed my cock against the cleft of him and rocked forward slowly. “You feel that?”
“Yes.” The word came out raw. “Rook, I swear to god—”
I rocked again, the length of me sliding against him, slick and deliberate, and felt him press back.
I pressed my lips to the base of his spine and then I lined up and pushed in.
The sound he made was long and broken and completely honest, and I gripped his hips and held still and let him adjust.
“You're so deep,” he said, and his arms were shaking slightly where they braced against the mattress. “Rook, you're so — I can feel you everywhere.”
“Good.” I pulled back and thrust in, and he groaned into the pillow and his spine arched. “That's what I want. You feeling every inch of it.”