Chapter 23 #4
Not because I wanted to. Because if I didn't, this was going to end before I was ready for it to end, and I had plans that required more runway than I currently had left.
He made a sound of protest against my thigh, lips chasing where I'd been, and I reached past him to the nightstand.
The cock ring had been sitting there since before he'd woken up. I'd put it there the same morning I'd bought the lingerie, both purchases made in the same quiet hour before he was awake, filed under the category of things I wanted without being particularly surprised that I wanted them.
I picked it up and held it out.
He looked at it. Then at me. Something moved through his face that was past arousal and into something more deliberate.
“Put it on me,” I said.
He took it from my fingers slowly.
He sat up properly, both hands working, and the focused attention he brought to the task was its own specific thing to survive.
He took his time with it, fitting it carefully.
And when it was seated at my base he wrapped both hands around me and just held there for a moment, feeling the difference in weight.
The ring made me look like something that required a conversation before proceeding.
“Still want this?” I said, and my voice had gone rough at the edges.
He looked up at me from under his lashes with his hands still wrapped around me and said, “I have never wanted anything more in my entire life.”
I got my hand back into his hair.
I guided him forward and he opened for me and the wet heat of his mouth closing around me with the ring at my base made every muscle from my thighs to my jaw go rigid simultaneously.
He worked down as far as he could, which was considerable, and the sounds he was making around me were muffled and continuous and vibrating through me in waves.
I held his hair and let him set the pace for a minute. Then I pulled him off by the hair and heard the wet sound of it and the rough exhale he let out when he surfaced.
“Edge of the bed,” I said. “On your back. Head over the side.”
He moved immediately.
He repositioned himself so his shoulders were at the mattress edge and his head tipped back over it, throat exposed, the long line of his neck presented upward, and I stood at the side of the bed and looked down at him from above and felt the full weight of what I was about to do settle into my chest.
I reached down and ran my thumb along his throat. Felt him swallow against it.
“You good?” I said.
“Yes.”
I pressed my cock against his lips from above and he opened and took me in, and the angle from here was its own revelation.
Deeper. Straighter. The column of his throat visibly working around me when I pressed forward, and the sounds he was making were wet and full and continuous and going through me like low current.
I put my hand around his throat.
Not hard. Firm. Feeling the movement of him around me through my palm, the vibration of the sounds he was producing, the slight pressure change when I tightened my grip the smallest amount, and the full-body shudder that ran through him when I did.
I started moving.
The rhythm I found was slow at first, then less slow, my hips rolling forward in controlled thrusts while my hand stayed at his throat and my eyes stayed on him below me. His hands had gone to my thighs, gripping hard, not pushing back but holding on, anchoring himself to me as I moved.
My free hand found his chest.
I ran my palm down the center of it, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing changing under my hand, and found his nipple with my thumb and pressed.
I rolled his nipple between my fingers, unhurried, feeling him clench and shudder with every variation of pressure, and kept the rhythm of my hips consistent while his body processed both signals at once and clearly struggled to know which one to chase.
I tightened my hand at his throat by a single degree and felt him moan around me.
His hands on my thighs were starting to shake.
I pulled back.
He gasped when I withdrew, a raw and involuntary sound, his head still hanging over the edge of the mattress and his chest heaving in the open air. I gave him two seconds to breathe and then I reached down and got my hands on him and moved him.
I rolled him onto his stomach and he let it happen, arms falling loose above his head, cheek pressed into the duvet, the long line of his spine catching the light through the window.
The lace underwear sat low on his hips, the thin fabric disappearing into the cleft of his ass, and I sat back on my heels and looked at him laid out below me and felt something in my chest go very quiet and very decided.
I brought my palm down.
The sound of it filled the room and he made a sharp, punched-out noise into the duvet and his hips pressed down into the mattress instinctively. A flush bloomed across his skin where my hand had landed, vivid and immediate, and I spread my palm flat over it and felt the heat radiating upward.
“Rook—” Muffled. Breathless.
I brought my hand down again, other cheek, and the sound he made this time was lower and longer and had nothing bitten-off about it. His hands found the duvet and gripped.
I ran both palms across him slowly, feeling the warmth my hands had put there, squeezing once before I got my fingers into the thin string of the thong and moved it aside. The lace pulled taut, holding to one side, and what was revealed was warm and flushed and entirely his.
I spanked him again.
He cried out into the duvet, open and unguarded, hips bucking back toward me in the aftermath rather than away, his body making its preferences extremely clear.
“You like that,” I said, and it was not a question.
“Yes.” The word came out wrecked and immediate. “Fuck. Yes.”
I let my palm rest against him, warm and full, and felt his pulse in it.
Then I looked up at the nightstand. The lube was still there.
I reached for it, got my fingers slicked, and held them there for a moment, letting him feel nothing but the warmth of my other hand on his skin and the anticipation of what was coming.
He turned his face sideways on the duvet, one eye finding me, and the look in it was naked and waiting and entirely certain.
I gathered saliva on my tongue and let it fall against him directly, felt him shiver at the warmth of it, and then I pressed two slicked fingers against him and stroked.
I pressed firmer and felt him open slightly under the pressure, and I kept the motion going, slow and thorough, the way you'd touch something you wanted to take care of.
My other hand ran up the inside of his thigh, palm flat, fingers spread, and the combination of both sensations made his whole body roll in a slow, helpless wave.
I pressed one finger in.
I curled slightly and felt him gasp and did it again, and again, finding the rhythm that made his hips move without asking them to.
“More,” he said, barely audible.
I added a second finger and took my time opening him, working him soft and thorough and wet, the way you'd work something you intended to spend a long time with.
His hips rolled back against my hand in slow, greedy pulses, chasing the depth each time I pressed in, and the small sounds he was making into the duvet were continuous and completely unguarded.
“Rook.” My name, pulled apart at the seams. “Please.”
I withdrew my fingers slowly and heard the sound he made at the absence. Then I lowered myself and pressed my mouth to him.
His thighs were shaking on either side of my face, the lace stockings warm under my palms where I gripped them, and every time I pressed deeper he made a new sound that was more wrecked than the last one.
His hand dropped back and found my hair.
I pressed in closer and felt him grip.
“Don't stop,” he said, and his voice was barely recognizable. “Please don't stop. Please. Rook. Please.”
I had no intention of stopping.
I worked him until his thighs stopped shaking and started pressing back against my face instead, hips rolling in slow insistent circles that told me he'd moved past overwhelmed and into demanding.
I held him open with both thumbs and pressed my tongue in as deep as it would go and felt the full-body clench of him around it.
I pulled back just far enough to breathe, lips still pressed to him, and gathered spit in my mouth and let it fall directly onto his hole, warm and deliberate, and heard the sound he made into the duvet.
“Fuuuck—”
I pressed back in and worked it into him with my tongue, thorough and unhurried, feeling him go loose and then clench and then loose again, his whole body cycling through the sensation with nothing held back.
His hand had tightened in my hair to the point of real pressure and I let him hold, let him grip, let him use me as an anchor while I took him apart at the seams.
Then I pulled back and reached for the lube.
I slicked myself slowly, one hand working from base to tip, and the pressure of my own grip against the cock ring sent a pulse through me that tightened my jaw.
He heard the slick sound of it and turned his face sideways on the duvet and looked back at me, and the expression on his face was past patience entirely.
“Turn over,” I said.
He rolled onto his back and I was already moving, getting both hands behind his knees, and he read my intent and lifted his legs and I put them up onto my shoulders.
The lace stockings pressed warm against the sides of my neck.
That detail nearly undid me before I'd even started.
The delicate fabric against my skin, the warmth of his calves on my shoulders, the full length of him laid open below me with the lace pulled taut across his thighs and his cock flushed hard against his stomach and his eyes looking up at me with something that was want and trust in equal measure.
I lined up and pressed in.
He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a week.