Chapter 12 Rory #4
His words sent me hurtling over the edge.
My body tensed, every muscle locking as pleasure exploded through me.
I cried out, throwing my arms around his neck, burying my face into it as I came in hot pulses across his thigh, my entire body shuddering with the force of my release.
Raindrops and lemongrass and white-hot heat enveloped me at the peak, like a storm breaking inside me.
Wave after wave crashed over me, leaving me gasping and clinging to Maxwell like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
For a moment, I hung suspended in bliss, my body a collection of nerve endings humming with satisfaction.
The room spun back into sharp edges and solid shapes, revealing my feet swaying inches above the floorboards—Maxwell was supporting my entire weight, his arms wrapped around me like steel bands, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs against my ear.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, face still buried in his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent, the strength of it almost overpowering. My legs felt like jelly, utterly useless.
Between us, a sticky mess covered his jeans. But he had asked for it, hadn’t he? Practically demanded it with that commanding voice and those strong hands guiding my hips.
I became acutely aware of something hard pressing against my hip—Maxwell’s own considerable erection straining painfully against his jeans. That couldn’t be comfortable.
Slowly—giving him plenty of time to stop me if he wanted—I slid my hand down his chest, past his stomach, until my fingers brushed against the outline of his cock. He drew in a sharp breath.
“Can I suck you off?”
The question hung between us for one breathless moment. Then Maxwell’s arms loosened their grip, and I slipped to the ground, hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Looking up, I found his expression had shifted, his brows drawn together.
“What, too gay?” I tried to joke, but it came out sounding strained and panicked.
“No,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked, fingers still hovering near his belt buckle.
“You’re injured, Rory.” His fingers traced a path from my wrist to the edge of my shoulder wound, which was barely bothering me with all the pleasant distraction. “You need to rest.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Seriously? That just now wasn’t particularly restful. What’s the real problem? Scared you won’t be able to look me in the eye after you’ve seen me on my knees for you?”
Something flashed in his eyes—that spark I’d seen before when I pushed his buttons just right.
“No,” he practically seethed. “I’m more concerned you won’t be able to handle what you’re asking for.”
“Your lack of evidence is disappointing for a detective. Let’s collect some more data points, shall we?
Exhibit A, my mouth.” I flicked open his belt buckle with slightly shaking fingers, the metallic clink sounding like a dare in the quiet room.
“Unless you’ve suddenly developed performance anxiety? ”
A low, guttural sound—half growl, half groan—escaped Maxwell’s throat.
In one swift movement, his hand shot out to grip the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with surprising strength.
He guided me downward with firm pressure, not rough but undeniably commanding, until my knees hit the floorboards with a satisfying thud.
I grinned up at him, then with a wink, my fingers wiggled underneath the elastic band of his briefs as I remembered how much I’d wound him up that time in the car, when I’d taunted him with questions about his underwear.
I yanked down both garments, my fingers brushing against the coarse curls at his groin.
And then, jutting up with proud glory, his cock sprang free.
His rather massive cock.
Fuck that, his extremely massive, oh-my-god-it’s-humongous cock.
A cock I’d promised was going in my mouth.
My jaw actually dropped as my eyes blinked in disbelief at its thick, swollen head and the sheer bloody length of it. Smooth, formidable, throbbing, it completely filled my vision, dominating the space between us. I licked my lips, my eyes tracing its slight curve.
Maxwell was unable to hide the nervous edge in his laugh. “You thought I was exaggerating, didn’t you, Thorne?”
I ignored him, already moving my mouth towards it, overwhelmed by the urge to worship this magnificent creature. My lips parted, eager to trace every glorious vein, to map the contours of its impressive length with my tongue.
One hand went straight to his base. His cock pulsed beneath my hand, seeking, demanding.
My mouth began with reverence, a slow drag of my tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed beneath my touch.
Maxwell’s breath caught, a soft hiss filling the cottage as his head fell back against the wall.
His cock twitched against my tongue, responding beautifully to each delicate exploration.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed.
I painted wet circles around the base, taking my time, learning the geography of him—the slight ridge where shaft met pelvis, the velveteen softness of skin stretched taut over hardness. My hands steadied his hips, but they strained against my grip, seeking more than this teasing worship.
Maxwell’s fingers threaded through my hair, not pulling, just resting there with a trembling restraint that told me how close he was to losing control. I glanced up through my lashes to find his eyes locked on me, dark with hunger, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
I dragged my tongue upward in a languid spiral, savouring the salt of his skin, the heat radiating against my lips. When I reached the crown, a glistening bead of precum had formed at the tip.
One taste. That’s all it took.
The flavor exploded across my tongue. Salt. Musk. Maxwell. Lemongrass. Raindrops.
Something in me snapped.
I took him in.
Hard.
With a hunger that made time fracture around us, my lips stretched around his considerable girth as I welcomed him into the wet heat of my mouth. And oh. The taste of him—the weight of him—rewrote every fantasy I’d ever entertained.
A strangled sound tore from his throat as I began to move, my tongue mapping every ridge and vein with devoted attention. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more, and I gave it to him, drawing him deeper until I could feel the blunt head of his cock nudging the back of my throat.
“Christ,” he gasped, his voice wrecked and desperate.
I set a rhythm that had him trembling against the wall, my mouth working him with increasing fervor.
His fingers tightened in my hair—not pulling, but anchoring himself as I lavished attention on every inch of him.
The cottage filled with the sounds of our shared desperation: his ragged breathing, my soft moans of appreciation, the wet slide of lips and tongue.
I hollowed my cheeks and drew him in even deeper.
Not all the way—not as far into my throat as I’d like—but enough.
Enough to hear that broken sound tear from his chest.
Enough to know I was ruining him.
I was making him make those noises. Me.
“Rory!” he cried, my only warning as he pulsed hot and thick across my tongue.
He tried desperately to pull away, but I held him fast, drinking him down greedily, gorging myself on the taste of him.
My wolf howled with satisfaction, a primal pleasure at having him on my tongue, down my throat.
When I finally pulled back, my chest heaved as I caught my breath.
Maxwell’s dick still glistened with traces of saliva and cum. I leaned forward again, dragging my tongue slowly along his length, cleaning him thoroughly as he groaned above me, his fingers still tangled loosely in my hair.
I sat back on my heels, finally taking in the full picture of us—Maxwell, breathless against the wall, cum-covered jeans pooled around his ankles, shirt rucked up.
Maxwell seemed to have the same thought. He kicked off his jeans and pants, then reached down to snatch the blanket from the floor. He wrapped it around his waist, while I remained kneeling there, utterly naked.
“There’s no need for this to be awkward,” I said quickly, the words tumbling out. “It’s just sex.”
Though something about those words didn’t feel right on my tongue. Something about those words sent a flutter of panic through me.
“I’m not feeling awkward,” Maxwell said, his voice stiff, his posture even stiffer as he clutched the blanket around his waist like a shield.
It was such a blatant lie that I laughed, loudly.
Sighing deeply, Maxwell crossed the room and threw himself on the sofa, wiping his face with his hand. Just as I was about to remind him whose idea that whole thing was, he spoke.
“I’m sorry. I am feeling awkward. I’m not going to sit here and say, ‘we shouldn’t have done that,’ like a twat, but I’m not completely blind to the consequences either.”
I joined him on the sofa, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at my shoulder.
I’d definitely overdone it. Placing a cushion over my dick for some semblance of modesty, I said, “What consequences? Seriously, I’ll be totally normal tomorrow.
My usual, irritating self.” I paused. “Actually, slightly less irritating, because of the super hot sex, but that’s a positive consequence, so there. ”
A genuine laugh escaped him then, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He looked at me when he said, “You know, I don’t usually enjoy sex.”
I blinked at him. “What? Why?” How could someone who kissed like that, who touched like that, who made those sounds, not enjoy sex?