Chapter 7 City of Teeth #2
He wrapped one hand around the base of me with the lace still gathered to the side, black fabric a stark contrast against my skin, and just looked for a moment. Like he was making a decision or saying a prayer or both.
Then he opened his mouth and took me in.
The sound that tore out of me before I could catch it was embarrassingly wrecked.
My head hit the wall behind me and my hand dropped to his hair, not pushing, just needing somewhere to be.
He took his time. Not the efficient enthusiasm from before but a slower pace that felt like it was for him as much as for me, like he was doing exactly what he wanted and happening to take me apart in the process.
His tongue worked the underside of my cock, tracing up and back, and when he pulled off to mouth at the head I heard myself make a sound that was completely undone.
“You like that?” he asked. His voice was destroyed. He looked up at me with dark eyes and swollen lips. “Like me on my knees for you?”
“Yeah.” The word came out strangled. “Don't fucking stop.”
He hummed in satisfaction and the vibration traveled through his lips and into me like a current. His free hand came up to press flat against my stomach like he wanted to feel the way I was shaking.
He sank deeper. Swallowed around me and I bit down on my own fist to keep from making more noise than I already was, thighs going rigid, hips fighting the urge to push forward.
He worked me with his throat, taking me all the way down until his nose pressed against my pelvis and the lace was rough against his chin.
When he pulled off his lips were red and wet.
“Get on the desk,” he said. “Face down. Now.”
He didn't give me time to move on my own. Just stood and turned me himself, hands firm on my shoulders, walked me two steps toward the desk and then changed his mind. Pressed me face-first into the wall instead. One forearm across my upper back. Not cruel. Just decided.
“Here,” he said against my ear. “Stay.”
He dropped to his knees behind me.
I heard them hit the floor. Felt his hands spread across my ass through the lace, squeezing once with clear appreciation, and then his thumbs found the fabric and pulled it aside the same way he had before. Careful. Like it mattered to him that the lace stayed intact.
The first touch of his mouth made me slam both palms flat against the wall and curse so loud it echoed.
He didn't tease. Didn't work up to it. Just buried his face in and ate me out like he'd been starving for it, tongue pressing in slow devastating circles while his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
The sound he made against me was hungry in a way that short-circuited thought entirely, low and greedy, like he'd been wanting this since the moment I'd walked onto his floor.
My forehead hit the wall. My hips pushed back on pure reflex and he let them, encouraged it, tilting the angle until I was grinding against his mouth and making sounds I'd be embarrassed about later.
He worked me open with his tongue, thorough and relentless, and every time I got close to forming a coherent thought he'd change the pressure or the rhythm and pull me back under. My cock hung hard and untouched and I was leaking against the wall, thighs shaking with the effort of staying upright.
“Please.” The word fell out of me broken and desperate. “Dan, please.”
He heard it. Pulled back. I felt him stand, heard the click of a desk drawer, heard the cap of the lube snap open.
One slick hand wrapped around himself and then his fingers were back, two of them pressing in slow where his mouth had been, spreading me, working me open, making sure I could take him.
“Still good?” he said against my shoulder. Low and rough and barely holding together.
“Yes.” The word came out destroyed. “Yes, come on, just do it.”
He pressed the head of his cock against me and I felt the pressure, felt the stretch beginning, and then he pushed in with one long slow thrust that didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt.
The sound I made wasn't language. Just noise shaped like desperation and relief and too much all at once. My mouth fell open against the wall as he seated himself fully and stopped. Breathing hard. Both of us were.
His lips found the back of my neck and stayed there. “You have no idea how good you feel.”
He started to move.
Short rolls of his hips at first, testing, feeling out the angle while his hand gripped the lace at my hip like an anchor. My palms were still flat against the wall and I pressed harder into it, needing the resistance, needing solid ground while everything else came apart.
The stretch was perfect. The drag of him pulling out and pushing back in hit a place inside me that made my vision go white at the edges. I heard myself making sounds I didn't recognize, low and wrecked and continuous.
“There?” he said against my ear.
“Yes. Don't stop. Harder.”
He didn't stop. Built a rhythm that started deliberate and got steadily less controlled, hips snapping forward with real force now, and the soft wet sounds of it filling the small office should have embarrassed me but didn't. His breathing was ragged against my shoulder.
He kept his mouth there, lips pressed to skin, and every exhale came out broken in a different way than the one before it.
“You feel so good,” he said. “So fucking good.”
“Then fuck me like you mean it.” My voice came out torn. Demanding. “Stop holding back.”
He groaned against my neck in a way that sounded like surrender, and drove into me harder.
The angle shifted when he moved one hand from my hip to brace against the wall beside my head, getting leverage, and the new depth made me make a sound I didn't recognize as mine.
A low, wrecked noise that bounced off the walls and dissolved into the hum of the ventilation system.
His other hand stayed on the lace. Kept pulling it aside with his thumb. Like he needed to feel it there. Like it mattered to him in a way he wasn't going to explain.
I pushed back into him. Met each thrust with my own momentum, chasing the pressure, the stretch, the particular fullness of being taken by someone who knew exactly what he was doing and cared enough to do it well.
Dan wasn't selfish about it. Kept reading me, kept adjusting, slowed down when I got too close too fast and sped up again when I made the noise that told him I needed more.
“I want to feel you come,” he said. “Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”
“Then work for it.”
I lost my footing slightly and he caught me with an arm around my waist, holding me up, holding me in place while he fucked me with real intent now. The desk behind us rattled against the floor. Neither of us cared.
“Touch me,” I said. It came out more like begging than demanding.
His hand found me immediately. Wrapped around my cock and stroked, thumb swiping the head, and the sound I made then was a cross between a moan and a curse that had no clean phonetic spelling.
“Dan, I'm—”
“I know.” His voice was completely destroyed. “I know, I've got you, come for me.”
I came hard across his fist, onto the wall, probably onto the expensive carpet beneath us, and I didn't give a single fuck about any of it. Just rode it out while he kept stroking me, kept fucking me, drawing it out until I was shaking and oversensitive and barely standing.
He didn't pull out. Instead he drove in deeper, buried himself to the hilt and stayed there while I felt him pulse inside me, filling me with heat that made everything feel more real, more permanent. His groan was rough against my ear, his whole body going rigid against my back.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed. His free hand was braced on the wall beside mine. Both of us were shaking.
I reached back without turning around and pressed my hand against his hip, holding him there, keeping him inside me. Feeling the aftermath of what we'd just done settling warm and wet between us.
He made a sound at that. Low and appreciative. “You're going to kill me.”
“You'll live.” I turned my head to look at him over my shoulder. He looked wrecked in the best possible way, shirt untucked, hair a mess, lips swollen.
He grinned at me and slowly pulled out. I felt his come start to leak out immediately and didn't bother trying to stop it. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He tucked himself back in and adjusted his clothes like nothing had happened. “So about that bike.”
Right. The bike. The actual reason I'd come here.
I tucked myself back in, got my belt fastened, and tried to look like I hadn't just gotten thoroughly fucked in a backlit office by a stranger whose last name I didn't know.
“The black one,” I said. “I'll take it.”
“Good choice.” He moved back to professional like we hadn't just had each other five minutes ago. Pulled up the specs on his tablet. Walked me through purchase details and paperwork like this was a completely normal transaction.
I paid cash. Bought the helmet, jacket, and gloves he recommended. Signed the forms and took the keys.
“You need anything else while you're in Chicago, let me know,” he said, handing me a card with his personal number scrawled on the back.
“Sure.”
The bike felt good under me. Responsive and powerful, purring like a threat when I opened it up. I spent the afternoon riding through Chicago, relearning streets I used to know, letting the cold air and movement settle me.
The city looked different during the day.
Less hostile. Just familiar and worn, buildings I recognized mixed with new construction that made everything feel slightly off.
I rode through Pilsen, past murals I'd seen as a kid.
I went through Hyde Park where the university sprawled and down Lake Shore Drive with the water gray and choppy beside me.