Chapter 10 Ray #2
His fingers reach back and grab my hair and pull, hard, and the sting of it goes straight to my cock and I groan against his skin.
I go back to work. Tongue flat, then pointed, then pressing inside.
I learn what makes him shake versus what makes him cry out versus what makes him go silent and tense in that way that means he's close.
I use all of it, pushing him up and then easing off, keeping him on the edge because I'm not ready to let him come yet.
Not like this. I want him wrecked. I want him so far past his own defenses that he never finds his way back.
I pull back and look at him. Really look.
He's face-down, ass up, slick on his thighs and my spit on his skin and his fists gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles are white.
His shoulders are shaking. He's crying — I can hear it, soft, not sad but overwhelmed, like he doesn't know what to do with this much sensation.
The most controlled person I've ever met, and he's crying because someone is touching him like he matters.
The realization splits me open. I lean forward and press my lips to the small of his back, soft, and he shudders under me.
"I can't wait to be inside you," I say, and my voice cracks on it. "I keep thinking about what you're going to look like when I push my cock into you, how you're going to clench around me, how you're going to sound—"
He makes a noise that's almost a scream, muffled by the pillow, and he shudders everywhere. "Then do it," he gets out. "Stop talking about it and—"
"Not yet." I press my mouth to him again and he cries out and I lick into him wet and long and he shakes. "Not yet. I want you ready."
I bring my fingers up, slick from his thighs, and press one against his entrance alongside my tongue. He tenses — just for a second — and then I push in and he swallows my finger and moans so long and low it sounds like it's being pulled out of somewhere deep.
"That's it," I murmur against his skin. "There you go. You're so good, Miles. You're doing so good."
I work him open slow. One finger, crooking inside him, searching for the spot I know is there.
I find it and he jerks like he's been shocked, going rigid, and I press there, steady, rubbing in slow circles while I keep licking around my own finger.
The sounds he makes change — lower, more guttural, less controlled.
His hips are moving in these small, involuntary rolls, pushing back against me, and I let him set the rhythm.
"More," he says, and it's barely a word. "More, please, I need—"
I add another finger and he hisses and I slow down.
He's clenching. Clenching in a way that tells me it's been a long time since anyone has been here, if anyone has.
The thought makes a fierce, possessive wave surge through me — I'm the one doing this, I'm the one he's letting in, I'm the first person to touch him like this in years, maybe ever like this, and I will die before I hurt him.
"Breathe for me."
He breathes. I feel him relax around my fingers, the tension easing, and I start moving again, spreading my fingers, stretching him open.
He's so hot inside, slick and gripping and he keeps pulling at my fingers like he wants them farther.
I press against that spot again and he makes a sound that's close to a sob and pushes back hard.
"Yeah, right there?" I curl my fingers and press and he nods frantically into the pillow. "I've got you. I'm going to make you feel so good. You're going to take my cock so well, Miles, I can already tell, you're going to be so perfect around me—"
His fist slams against the headboard and he says something that might be a prayer or might be a threat, I can't tell, and I'm grinding against the mattress and leaking everywhere and my own control is a joke.
I'm an alpha in rut, basically. That's what this is.
His heat triggered it in me and I'm operating on instinct and the instinct is: take care of him, worship him, fuck him until neither of us can move.
I add more stretch, working him open wider, and he takes it with a moan that breaks in the middle. I'm shaking. My arms are shaking and my thighs are shaking and I want inside him so badly I can barely think in words anymore.
"Ray." His voice is different now. Clearer. A break in the heat-haze, a moment where the real Miles surfaces through the desperation. "Ray, please."
"Tell me." I curl my fingers and press and his back arches off the bed. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
He turns his head on the pillow and looks back at me over his shoulder. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his cheeks are wet and his eyes are fever-bright and he looks ruined and perfect.
"Fuck me," he says. "Please, Ray. I need you to fuck me."
I pull my fingers out and he gasps at the loss.
I sit up on my knees and I'm shaking — my thighs, my arms, everything.
I'm so hard it hurts and every instinct I have is screaming at me to push in, to take, to claim.
I position myself behind him and the head of my cock slides through the slick between his thighs and presses against his entrance, and the heat of him against me is so intense my vision blurs.
He pushes back. Just a fraction. Just enough that I can feel him start to open around me.
I grip his hips. I hold him still. I hold myself still.
And I wait, shaking, at the edge of everything.