Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
no control left
ROOK
Iwoke up to the sensation of Soren's mouth on my neck and his hand already wrapped around my cock, and for about three seconds my brain couldn't process anything except the heat and the pressure and the fact that I was harder than I'd ever been in my life.
“Fuck—” The word came out strangled, and I felt him smile against my skin.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep and want. “Been awake for a while. Couldn't stop thinking about last night.”
Last night. The memory of it made my cock throb in his hand, and I had to fight not to thrust up into his grip. “Soren—”
He pulled back enough to look at me, eyes dark and entirely focused. “Yeah?”
“Don't stop.”
He didn't stop.
He worked me slowly at first, getting deliberate about it the way he'd been deliberate about everything last night — learning what made me breathe differently, what made my jaw tighten, adjusting every time he found something that landed.
I had one hand in his hair and the other flat against the mattress, and I was making sounds I would have been embarrassed about under any other circumstances and couldn't find it in me to care about right now.
He moved down my body and pressed his lips to my hip, then lower, and I felt his breath ghost over my cock in ways that made my whole body tense with anticipation.
He took his time getting there. His mouth dragged up the inside of my thigh in short, unhurried strokes, close enough to where I needed him that my hips wanted to roll up and meet him.
He pressed them back down with a forearm across my stomach, not harsh, just immovable, and the patience of it was its own specific form of torment.
“Soren.” The word came out lower than I intended.
“Hmm?” He pressed a kiss against my hip. Another one.
“I swear to god if you don't—”
He wrapped one hand around the base of my cock without any warning, firm and deliberate, and my whole body jerked.
He didn't move his hand. Just held me there, applying enough pressure to make me acutely aware of every nerve ending I had, and looked up the length of my body with an expression that was pure satisfaction.
“There we go,” he said, mostly to himself.
“I hate you a little bit right now,” I told him.
“I know.” He pressed his thumb against the underside, slow and purposeful, and I felt the muscle in my thigh jump. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“Yeah, but I want to hear you say it.” He stroked once, base to tip, and stopped. “Come on.”
“Your mouth,” I said. The words scraped out rough and low. “I want your mouth on me.”
“Yeah?” He stroked again, slow, and I watched his tongue touch the corner of his lip like he was thinking about it. “Ask me properly.”
“Soren—”
“Ask me.”
I exhaled through my teeth. “Please.” The word cost me more than I expected. “Please put your mouth on me.”
He took me in without any more preamble, sinking down in one long, slow pull that left me with my head back and my teeth clenched against the noise trying to get out of my throat. He was warm and wet and thorough, and there was nothing hesitant about the way he moved.
He pulled off slowly and then did it again. Long, unhurried strokes that kept me hovering at the edge of desperate without tipping me over.
“Fuck,” I exhaled. My knuckles were white in the sheet. “Soren. Don't stop.”
He hummed in acknowledgement and the vibration went through me like a live wire. My hips tried to roll up and he pressed them back down with one forearm, not harsh, just immovable, and the reminder that he was controlling the pace made my cock pulse in his mouth.
“Please,” I said again, and I didn't even recognise my own voice. “Harder.”
He gave me harder. His head dropped and he took me deeper, and I felt the back of his throat and had to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from making a noise that would embarrass me.
His free hand moved to cup me underneath, rolling slow and deliberate, and the combination of sensations was so precise it was like he'd mapped out exactly what would break me down and was working through it methodically.
“You're—” My voice cut out. I swallowed and tried again. “You're incredible. You know that?”
I was already close, which was humiliating given how long he'd drawn this out, but my body hadn't consulted my pride before deciding we were done holding back. I could feel the orgasm building in slow, insistent waves, pulling tighter with every stroke of his tongue.
“I'm close.” I forced the words out. “I'm not going to last.”
He pulled off. I made an involuntary sound that I was going to spend the rest of my life pretending hadn't happened.
“Don't want you to last,” he said, and his voice had gone rough in ways that told me he was just as affected as I was, regardless of how controlled he looked.
“Want to make you come so hard you can't think straight.” He pressed a deliberate kiss to the tip of my cock and looked up at me. “Tell me what it feels like.”
“What?”
“I want to hear it.” He stroked me once with his fist, watching my face.
I pulled at the sheet. “Like I've been trying to hold back a tide and I'm about to lose.”
“Then let it lose,” he said. “Let go. I've got you.”
He took me in again and this time he didn't tease, didn't pace it, just moved with focused intensity that had my thighs shaking within thirty seconds.
I stopped trying to hold back and I stopped trying to stay quiet and I let it happen, and the sound that came out of me when I finally came was low and rough and completely beyond my control.
He kept me in his mouth through all of it, swallowing around me, and the sensation was so overwhelming I had to grip the headboard and feel the frame rattle hard against the wall.
He worked me through it until I was shaking and oversensitive and had completely lost track of my own edges, everything blurring into heat and his hands on my thighs and the slow, careful drag of him releasing me.
He crawled up my body and I pulled him down and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his mouth, feeling his exhale against my lips.
“Still thinking straight?” he asked.
“Barely.” I rolled him onto his back and felt him go willingly, which was its own kind of power — watching him, who'd been so deliberate and controlled a minute ago, soften and open up now that the attention was shifting.
He was flushed from his chest up, hair wrecked, and he was looking at me with an expression that was trying hard to be casual and failing completely.
“Your turn,” I said.
“I mean, you don't have to—” he started.
“Soren.” I said his name the same way he'd said mine. Flat. Final. “Shut up.”
He shut up.
I put my mouth to the line of his jaw and felt his pulse jump under his skin.
“Tell me what you want,” I said against his throat.
He laughed, a bit unsteady. “You're going to use that against me.”
“Obviously.” I worked down to his collarbone. His hand came up to grip my shoulder and I let him have it. “Tell me.”
“Your hands,” he said. The joking edge was gone. “I want your hands on me.”
I gave him that. Wrapped one hand around his cock and watched his head tip back, the long line of his throat going taut. He made a sound like I'd knocked the air out of him, and that sound did something to my chest I was going to need to think about later.
“Good?” I asked.
“Don't ask stupid questions,” he said, which was a yes.
I worked him steady, learning the pace that made his hips roll up and the grip that made him stop trying to be quiet about it.
He was warm and solid in my hand and he just felt things and let me see it.
No performance. No managing his reaction for my benefit.
Just Soren, wide open, his body giving me every answer I was looking for before I'd figured out the question.
He was already leaking against my palm, and I spread it slowly with my thumb the way I'd done to myself alone in the dark weeks ago, when I'd been sitting on my living room floor trying to convince myself this wasn't where I was heading.
I wasn't trying to convince myself of anything now.
I just wanted to know what he needed and give it to him.
His hips rolled up into my hand and I tightened my grip and he made a sound low in his chest that went through the top of my skull.
“Move down,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. Not instructing. Just asking.
I looked at him.
“You don't have to,” he said, and he meant it — I could see that he meant it, that he wasn't going to push me somewhere I wasn't ready to go. His eyes were dark and certain and patient and entirely focused on my face.
“I want to,” I said.
I moved down his body.
I pressed my lips to his stomach first, then lower, feeling him tense under every point of contact, his abs pulling tight. I could feel the heat of him against my cheek before I got there, close enough that my breath hit the head of his cock and he inhaled sharply through his nose.
“Take your time,” he said, quiet and even. “There's no rush.”
I wrapped one hand around the base of him, the way he'd done for me, and held him there.
He was thick and heavy in my grip and I was aware, in a way that made my pulse jump, that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
I'd understood the theory of this for my entire adult life and had now arrived at the practice of it with all the preparedness of someone showing up to a playoff game in street clothes.
“Hey.” Soren's hand found my hair, not pushing, just resting there. “Look at me.”
I looked up at him.
“Just start,” he said. “Your mouth, your tongue. Whatever feels natural. I'll tell you if something's not working.” The corner of his mouth moved. “It's going to be good. I promise you it's going to be good.”
I turned my face back down and pressed my lips to the tip of him.