Chapter 27 #4
I let my eyes drift sideways to the window. Jace’s head bobbed in a steady unhurried rhythm, his hand at the base, and Coach had both hands now, one on the back of Jace's head and the other running down across Jace's chest.
Coach did it again.
Jace shuddered and took him deeper.
Coach rolled the nipple between his fingers with the exact same unhurried patience he brought to line changes on the bench, watching Jace's face the whole time, calibrating by the sounds coming out of him, and when Jace's rhythm faltered Coach pressed gently at the back of his head and guided him forward and held him there.
Jace's throat bulged visibly around him.
He held there for five full seconds before Coach let him back.
Rook pulled me off him by the hair.
He stood with me, his body rising to meet mine, and his hand went immediately to the back of my neck.
“Move,” he said.
He walked me forward.
I went without resistance, bare feet over the carpet, the chain swinging from my collar and tapping against my chest with every step, and he steered me toward the window in a direct line until my palms came up instinctively and found the cold glass.
The shock of it went through my wrists and up my arms.
He pressed in behind me and pushed one hand flat between my shoulder blades and walked my chest into the window until the cool surface was against my pectorals and my cheek was turned sideways against it and my breath was fogging the glass in slow irregular bursts.
Coach had Jace against the wall.
Jace's back was pressed flat against the drywall.
His arms were up, wrists crossed above his head, held there by one of Coach's broad hands.
His chest was bare and rising fast. The lamp in the corner of the room caught him in full relief, and between his legs his cock was flushed and hard and visibly straining upward against his stomach, glistening at the tip in a way I could see even through the glass and the yard between us.
Coach was on his knees.
He had Jace's thighs over his shoulders, or close enough to it, Jace's one leg hooked up and braced against Coach's back, and his face was buried between Jace's legs with the full, focused attention of a man who had all night and no intention of hurrying.
Jace's head was tipped back against the wall.
His mouth was open. His free hand, the one not pinned above his head, had been released by Coach at some point and was pressed flat against the wall beside his own hip, fingers splayed, gripping at nothing.
Every few seconds his whole body jerked against the wall and Coach's hand on his hip held him in place and Jace's mouth opened wider.
Behind me, Rook's palm was smoothing down my back.
His hand kept moving, slow circles between my shoulder blades, soothing in a way that was entirely at odds with what his other hand was about to do. “Keep watching.”
His palm dragged down my spine to the small of my back.
It rested there for a moment, warm against the bare skin above the thin lace waistband, and then it moved lower.
He cupped my ass through the lace, slow, squeezing once with his whole hand, and I felt my hips push back into his palm without deciding to.
The fabric was thin enough that I could feel the heat of his skin through it.
He worked me in his hand unhurried, kneading the muscle, spreading his fingers wide, and then without warning he brought his palm down.
I made a sound against the glass that fogged a wider patch in front of my mouth.
He did it again.
The second one landed across the same spot and the flare went deeper, and my hips jerked forward into the cold glass and then back into his hand in one involuntary motion.
My cock was already straining against the front of the thong, the lace soaked through at the tip, pressed hard against the cool surface of the window, and the combination of the heat at my ass and the cold against my front had my whole nervous system firing at once.
Jace was coming apart against the wall in real time, his head rolling sideways, his eyes opening long enough to find my face before they rolled closed again.
Rook's hand was back on me, soothing the heat he'd put there, palm dragging slow over the lace in long circles.
“You're hot through this,” he said quietly. “Can feel it.”
He hooked two fingers under the waistband at my hip and slid them inward along the lace, following the line of the thong around the curve of my ass, until he reached the thin strip of fabric between my cheeks.
He caught it in his fingers and pulled it aside, slow, baring me to the cool air of the room and whatever he intended to do next.
His other hand stayed pressed to my lower back.
“Stay there,” he said. “Don't move.”
I didn't move.
He leaned forward over me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his chest hovering just above my back without touching, and I heard him gather saliva in his mouth, unhurried, deliberate, the sound of it audible in the quiet of the room.
He spat.
The warmth of it landed directly on my hole, and my forehead dropped forward against the glass with a soft knock that fogged the pane a third time.
“Oh god.”
“Yeah.” His thumb came down and pressed against the wetness, spreading it in a slow circle. “Look at that.”
His thumb worked slow circles over me, spreading the warmth of his spit into my skin, and then his hand moved and I heard him spit into his palm a second time.
A wetter sound. More generous. He slicked his fingers and brought them back to me and the first press of his middle finger against my entrance was unhurried and exact.
He pushed in.
One slow, controlled slide to the second knuckle. He held there. Let me adjust to the stretch. His other hand had moved to rest warm at the small of my back, flat and steady, grounding me in place against the window.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Open up for me.”
He drew back slow and pushed in deeper.
The second pass went all the way in and I felt his knuckles settle against me and his finger curled and found the spot that made my whole body jolt forward into the glass. My forehead knocked against the pane and stayed there. My breath came out in a long shaky exhale.
“Fuck.” Soft. Wrecked.
“Yeah.” Rook's voice had gone low and unhurried and entirely focused. “You're so fucking wet already. Feel that?”
He pulled out slow and I heard the slick sound of it and then his finger pressed back in, wetter now from his own spit and whatever my body was giving him, and the sound of him working me was audible and continuous and filthy in a way that went straight through my spine.
“Hear yourself,” he said. “Listen.”
I listened.
Every slow pump of his finger made a soft wet sound that filled the quiet of the room, and he kept the pace steady.
His other hand had come up under my hip and was bracing me slightly away from the glass, giving him a better angle, and he used it now to tilt me back into his hand so the next push went deeper.
Across, Coach had Jace turned around against the wall.
Jace's palms were against the drywall now, forehead pressed forward, his back curved into a long bowed line, and Coach was behind him on his knees with his face pressed in between.
I could see the shape of Coach's shoulders working, the slow bob of his head, the way Jace's whole body was trembling against the wall in response.
Rook's finger curled inside me. He pulled out slowly and I felt him gather more saliva and heard the soft sound as he spat directly onto his fingers and then against me. “Open wider for me.”
He pressed two fingers in.
The stretch registered across my whole lower body at once, the slow thick fullness of it working in by degrees, and he took his time, pulling back an inch before pressing in a little deeper, then back, then deeper again, working the slick into me with each slow pump.
My hips had started moving without me asking them to, pushing back into his hand in small greedy rocks, chasing the depth every time he pulled away.
“That's it,” he said behind me. “Take it.”
His fingers curled and I felt my whole body clench around them and the sound that left me was high and unguarded and completely past managing. My cock was pressed hard against the cool glass through the soaked lace of the thong, leaving a wet smear on the pane every time my hips rolled forward.
Rook dropped to his knees behind me.
I didn't register the movement until I felt his breath at the back of my thigh, warm against the lace border of the stocking, and then his mouth pressed open against the skin just above it.
He kissed up slow, trailing his lips along the inside curve of my ass, fingers still working steady inside me, and the combination of his mouth and his hand had me panting against the window in small wet breaths that kept fogging the glass in overlapping rings.
Then his tongue joined his fingers.
He pulled his hand back just enough to make room and pressed his mouth in, tongue flat and wet and licking along the length of his own fingers still inside me, and the sensation of both at once was so overwhelming my knees threatened to go.
My forearms came up flat against the glass to brace myself and my cheek pressed harder against the cool surface and the sound that tore out of my chest was raw.
“Fuck. Rook. Fuck.”
He hummed against me in answer and the vibration of it went through my whole pelvis.
He worked me like that for a long minute, tongue and fingers together, the sounds wet and continuous and unhurried, his free hand gripping the back of my thigh just below the lace to hold me open.
Every so often he would pull his mouth back just far enough to spit again, deliberately, adding more slick, and the warmth of it sliding down over his fingers and my thighs had me shaking against the window.
“One more,” he said against me.
The third finger pressed in slow.