Chapter 27 #3
My hands found the waistband of his training pants where they sat low on his hips, and I worked the drawstring loose with my fingers while keeping my eyes on his.
He watched me do it without speaking, one elbow still on the armrest, the other hand resting loose on his thigh, and the attention in his face was complete and unhurried.
The drawstring came free. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband.
“Lift,” I said softly.
He lifted his hips off the chair and I pulled the pants down his legs in one slow drag, and he worked his feet free one at a time and let me set the pants aside on the floor.
His boxers were black and snug and did absolutely nothing to hide how affected he already was, and I looked at the shape of him through the fabric for a beat too long before I caught myself.
“Leave those,” he said. Reading me. “Not yet.”
“Yes.”
I settled back on my heels between his bare thighs.
His hand came down and rested on top of my head, heavy and warm, fingers spreading through my hair once before going still. I could feel the pulse in his wrist where it pressed against my temple. He wasn't looking at me anymore. His eyes had moved past me to the window.
I turned my head slowly and looked where he was looking.
The scene across the yard had changed.
Coach was the one against the glass now.
He had his back to the window, broad shoulders spread wide against the pane, his shirt gone and his chest bare in the low light of the room behind him.
His chest was heavily furred, dark hair spread thick across his pecs and trailing down the center of his stomach, and Jace was pressed against him with his face buried in it.
Jace was going at him like he was starving.
His mouth worked across Coach's chest in long open kisses, lips dragging through the dense hair, face pressing in like he wanted to disappear into it. His hands were braced on the glass on either side of Coach's shoulders.
Rook shifted forward in the chair.
He got both hands at the hem of his practice shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, and the damp fabric came off with the faint smell of the rink clinging to it, and he dropped it on the floor beside his pants without ceremony.
“Come up here,” he said.
I rose onto my knees between his thighs and got my hands on his legs, palms sliding up from his knees to the tops of his thighs, and leaned in.
The first press of my lips against his chest went straight through me.
I started at his sternum and worked outward, slow and reverent, lips open against the warm skin and the dense coarse hair that dragged against my mouth with every kiss. I breathed him with my face pressed into his chest and felt my eyes close without meaning to.
His hand came down to rest on the back of my head.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Take your time.”
I moved across to one nipple and pressed my lips around it and worked my tongue slowly over the warm skin there, and he made a low sound above me and his fingers tightened in my hair.
The hair on his chest was thick enough that my tongue caught in it, the texture rough against the flat of my tongue, and I took my time learning every inch.
I dragged my lips sideways through the hair, kissed the ridge of muscle beneath, moved back across to the other side.
“Fuck, Soren.” Low. Quiet. “The mouth on you.”
I pressed my face into the center of his chest and just breathed.
His free hand came down to my jaw, thumb pressing against my chin, tipping my face up. I looked up at him with my lips still against his skin and he looked down at me with his pupils blown wide and his mouth slightly parted.
“Open,” he said.
I opened.
He gathered saliva on his tongue and let it fall and I took it and closed my mouth around nothing and felt the warmth of it slide down my tongue and my whole body shivered.
He watched my throat work when I swallowed.
His thumb traced along my lower lip afterward, gathering the faint wetness there, and he smeared it across my mouth like he was marking something.
“Good boy.”
I bent back to his chest and kept going.
Working my way lower now, lips and tongue moving through the hair down the center of his stomach, the trail thickening as I followed it south, and his stomach muscles clenched under my mouth as I moved.
The line of hair led me down to the waistband of his boxers and I pressed a long kiss just above the elastic and heard him exhale sharp and slow above me.
He tipped my face up again.
This time he leaned forward and spit onto my chest directly, warm and wet, landing on my collarbone above the collar and sliding down my sternum, and the sensation of it running across my skin made every hair on my body stand up at once.
“Fuck,” I said, soft and shaken.
“Rub it in.”
I got my hand up and smeared it across my chest, palm flat, spreading the warmth of it into my skin, and his eyes tracked my hand the whole way with an intensity that felt almost physical. His other hand dropped between his own legs and pressed against himself through the boxers.
“Come here.”
I rose up onto my knees higher, bringing my face level with his, and he got his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me in and kissed me.
The kiss was open and unhurried and wet, his tongue sliding against mine, and I put my hand on his chest and let my palm drag downward as we kissed, through the hair, over the flat of his stomach, down across the hard ridge of muscle above his waistband, and then lower.
My palm closed over him through the boxers.
He made a sound into my mouth that vibrated against my lips, low and involuntary, and his hand tightened at the back of my neck.
I worked my palm slowly along the length of him through the fabric, pressing him down against his own thigh, feeling the heat and the weight and the hard insistent shape of him through the thin black cotton.
He was thick under my hand, the whole shape of him obvious through the fabric, and I dragged my palm up and down unhurried, squeezing gently, pressing him flat and then letting him up again.
“Fuck.” Breathed into my mouth. “Soren.”
I kept kissing him. I kept my hand moving. Thumbed along the ridge of the head through the fabric and felt the small damp spot that had already soaked through and pressed my thumb into it and heard the sound he made against my lips go raw.
His hand slid from my neck up into my hair and gripped.
“You are,” he said, low against my mouth, “going to ruin me.”
“Yes.”
I palmed him harder through the cotton, slow and thorough, and kept kissing him through every sound he made into my mouth.
I turned my head without meaning to, my hand still pressed against Rook through the cotton, and looked out through the glass.
Jace was on his knees.
He had gone down in front of Coach in the space between the window and the bed, and Coach had turned slightly, angling himself so the view was cleaner.
Coach's boxers were pushed down to his thighs, his cock heavy and dark against his stomach, and Jace had both hands braced on Coach's hips and his mouth already open and waiting.
Coach's hand came down to the back of Jace's head.
Jace took him in one slow, controlled slide.
“Fuck,” Rook said above me, quiet and reverent.
I turned my face back up to him and found him watching the window. When he looked back down at me, the corner of his mouth ticked up.
“What?” I said.
“You see that?”
“Yeah.”
“Think we should show them how it's done?”
My pulse went somewhere loud.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes what.”
“Yes, sir.”
His pupils blew further.
“Good boy.” His hand slid from my hair to my jaw, thumb pressing against my lower lip again. “Go on, then. Show him.”
got both hands into the waistband of his boxers and pulled.
The fabric was already stretched tight across the front of him, and I got my grip into the seam along his hip and pulled harder, and I heard the small tearing sound as the stitching gave under my fingers.
The cotton split along the side, opening a jagged line from his waistband down to his thigh, and his cock came free in my hand with the fabric falling away from him.
I spat into my palm and wrapped my hand around him.
He was already leaking, the head slick and flushed dark, and I smeared the warmth of my spit down the length of him with one slow stroke and watched his head drop back against the chair.
His whole body tensed through the thighs and his hand slammed back down to the arm of the chair, fingers digging into the leather.
I leaned in and spat on him directly.
The glob of it landed at the base of the head and slid down slow, catching along the vein underneath, and I watched it travel with my mouth an inch away from him and breathed the heat of him in and didn't move for a beat longer than I needed to.
“Soren.” Rough. Bitten off. “Please.”
I took him in.
The first slide of my mouth around him was slow and thorough, tongue flat along the underside, lips tight just behind the head, and I took him as deep as I could go on the first pass and felt him bottom out against the back of my throat and held there.
His hand was back in my hair immediately, fingers fisted tight, not guiding, just holding, the grip of a man who had stopped being in charge of what his body was doing.
I pulled back slow and came off him with a wet sound that filled the room and looked up at him with my lips still touching the tip of him, and he was staring down at me like I had done something that had broken a piece of his higher brain function.
“Fucking look at you,” he breathed.
I smiled, small and deliberate, and took him in again.
This time I set a rhythm. Slow and deep and wet, my hand working the base in time with my mouth, and I made sure the sounds were audible. The slick slide, the soft gasp of my own breath through my nose, the wet pop every time I pulled back to the tip.