Chapter 10 Ray
Ray
His skin is on fire under my palms.
We're pulling at each other's clothes and nothing is working fast enough.
Miles's shirt is already half-off from earlier and I get it over his head and toss it and his chest is bare and flushed and heaving and I put my mouth on his collarbone and he makes a sound that goes straight to my cock.
My shirt goes next — he yanks it up and I pull it off one-handed and then we're chest to chest, skin to skin, and the heat of him is unreal.
He's burning. He's a furnace and I can feel it everywhere we touch.
"Ray." His voice is wrecked. He's pulling at my belt, fumbling with the buckle, his fingers clumsy. "Off. Get these off."
I help him. Jeans, boxers, everything, kicked off the side of the bed.
His pants too — I pull them down his hips and his legs and he's naked under me and wet, slick coating his inner thighs, and the smell of him hits me so hard my arms buckle.
I catch myself on my elbows and just breathe for a second with my face pressed against his neck.
I've had sex with a lot of people. I know what attraction feels like, what arousal feels like, what it's like to want someone.
This isn't that. This is bigger, happening in my blood, in my bones, and I know what to do even if my brain is still catching up.
Every instinct I have is locked on Miles — his scent, his skin, the sounds he's making, the way he's arching up against me looking for contact.
I can see the scar on his ribs. The thin white line from whatever happened when he was sixteen. I don't ask. I press my lips to it instead, a quick kiss, and move on.
"Please," Miles says, and his fingers are in my hair, pulling, trying to guide me. "Please, I need—"
"I know." I press him down onto the mattress with one palm flat on his chest. He fights it for a second, hips lifting, and then the pressure holds him and he gives way. He goes still under my touch, breathing hard, and his eyes are blown wide and dark. "I know what you need. Let me."
I start at his throat. I kiss down the side of his neck, over the bruise I left on the plane that's fading to yellow, and he shudders under my mouth.
I lick over the mark and he gasps and his hips roll up against nothing.
Even in heat, even desperate, he remembers what I did to him in that bathroom, and the knowledge that I've marked him makes something possessive and dark flare up in my chest.
I mouth at his collarbone, the dip between his pecs, the line down the center of his chest. I go slow because he needs me to go slow, even though his fingers keep pulling at my hair and his hips keep trying to buck up against me.
His skin is hot and damp with sweat and I drag my tongue over his nipple and he arches off the bed with a sound that makes my cock leak against the sheets.
"Ray, please, I can't — just—"
"You can." I suck at his nipple and roll the other one under my thumb and his grip leaves my hair, both fists slamming flat against the mattress, gripping the sheets.
He's taut and straining and I haven't even gotten below his waist yet.
I think about every hookup I've ever had, every easy night with a willing partner, and none of it was like this.
None of them made me want to spend an hour on their chest just to hear the sounds they make.
I kiss below his navel and his stomach tenses under my lips. His scent is stronger here, thick and sweet, and my cock throbs against the mattress. "Let me take care of you."
I skip his cock. He makes a frustrated noise that almost makes me laugh, and his grip tightens in my hair, but I keep going, pressing my mouth to his hip bone, then the inside of his thigh. The slick is here — I can see it, a sheen on his skin, and I drag my tongue through it.
The taste of him knocks the breath out of me. It's sweet and warm and richer underneath, an undertow that makes every alpha instinct in me go haywire. I groan against his thigh and his whole frame jolts at the sound.
"Fuck," I say against his skin, and my voice doesn't sound like me. Lower, rougher. "You taste—fuck, Miles."
He whimpers. His thighs are shaking. I lick a long stripe up his inner thigh, collecting the slick on my tongue, and he grabs the sheets with both fists and pulls so hard I hear fabric strain.
I do it again on the other side, slower, and he makes a sound that I'm going to hear in my dreams for the rest of my life — this broken, high, desperate noise that he's clearly trying to hold back and failing.
"Turn over," I tell him.
He goes still. I can see the resistance — even in heat, even now, the part of Miles that hates being vulnerable is fighting it. Being on his stomach, face down, ass exposed — that's about as vulnerable as it gets.
"Miles." I press my thumb into his hip. "Trust me."
He turns over. Slowly, his arms shaking, his face pressing into the pillow. His back is a long line of flushed skin and tense muscle, and his ass — god, his ass. He's wet. Slick is everywhere, glistening on his skin, and my mouth actually waters.
I run my palms up the backs of his thighs and he shivers, his hips pressing into the mattress. I ease him up onto his knees — gently, carefully, his face still in the pillow — and spread him open.
"You have no idea how you look right now," I say, and my voice is almost gone, just this low, raw thing. "You're so fucking beautiful."
He makes a muffled noise into the pillow that might be my name.
I lean in and press my tongue flat against his hole, and Miles's entire frame seizes.
His back arches, his fingers claw at the headboard, and the sound he makes is loud enough that I'm glad the room next door is empty.
I don't stop. I lick over him again, slow, dragging my tongue through the slick, and the taste fills my mouth and my brain goes quiet.
Everything goes quiet except this — him under me, the wet heat of him against my tongue, the sounds coming out of him that he can't control.
I eat him out like I've been starving for it.
Long, slow licks that make him shake, then quick, pointed strokes with the tip of my tongue right over his rim that make him sob.
I press my tongue inside and he clenches around me and his knees slide wider and I can feel him opening up, giving way as the heat takes over and the tension drains out of him.
"Ray — oh god, Ray, don't stop, please don't—"
I pull back just long enough to talk, my lips still brushing his skin.
"I'm not stopping. I've got you." I press a kiss to his tailbone and then lick back down, my tongue flat and wet, and he shoves back against my face and I let him.
I grip his hips hard enough that I know I'm leaving marks and I don't care.
A growl is rumbling in my chest — low and constant, vibrating through my mouth into him — and I'm not doing it on purpose. I couldn't stop it if I tried.
I alternate between eating him out and pulling back to tell him what I'm thinking. I can't help it. The words just come out.
"You're dripping for me." I lick through the slick pooling between his thighs. "All of this for me."
He sobs into the pillow.
"I think about this all the time. What you'd taste like. What you'd sound like." I press my tongue back inside him and he clenches around me and his fingers fly back to grab my hair. "Better than anything I imagined."
I settle in. That's the only way to describe it — I stop thinking about what comes next and just give myself over to this.
My mouth on him, my tongue working slow circles around his rim and then pressing inside, and the sounds he makes are the only feedback I need.
Higher pitched when I hit the right spot.
Desperate and broken when I press my tongue flat and lick.
A sharp cry when I seal my lips around his hole and suck, just gently, and his hips jerk back against my face and I grip them and hold him where I want him.
I could do this for hours. I'm not exaggerating. The taste of him, the way he responds to every shift in pressure, the slick that keeps coming — my chin is wet with it and I don't care, I press in closer and lick farther in and he's shaking so hard the headboard is rattling against the wall.
"Oh god, oh fuck, Ray—" He's given up on sentences.
He's given up on anything that isn't my name and swearing and these raw, wrecked sounds that are rewiring my brain.
Every noise he makes burns away another layer of the Ray I thought I was — the easygoing fuckboy, the casual hookup guy — and replaces it with someone older and hungrier and more focused than I've ever been in my life.
I'm so hard it hurts. My cock is pressed against the mattress and I'm grinding into it without meaning to, rutting against the sheets like I have no control over myself, and I don't. I really don't. The growl in my chest is low and constant, and I can feel it vibrating through my tongue into Miles, and he clenches around me every time the sound hits him.
I pull my mouth away and he whines at the loss, actually whines, and I press my forehead against the base of his spine and breathe. My jaw aches. My cock aches. Everything aches and I want more.
"You have no idea," I say against his skin, and my voice is gone, just this low, destroyed thing. "You walk around in your suits and your ties being perfect and untouchable, and the whole time this was underneath. This. These sounds. Fuck, Miles, if anyone at that firm could see you right now—"
"Don't—"
"They'd lose their minds. I'm losing my mind.
" I turn my head and bite the curve of his ass, not hard, just enough to feel his skin between my teeth, and the sound he makes is so good I do it again on the other side.
"I want to eat you out until you come on my tongue and then I want to fuck you and I want to hear you scream and I don't care who hears it. "