Chapter 15 Nothing Left to Hide #4
Troy stood between my knees looking down at me and the expression on his face was something I'd never seen on him before.
Not the careful blankness he wore in public.
Not the anger from earlier. Something rawer than both.
Focused. Certain. Like he'd been waiting to look at me exactly like this for longer than either of us had admitted out loud.
His hands went to the hem of my shirt.
He lifted it slowly. Not tearing, not rushing, just drawing it up by inches while his eyes tracked every inch of skin that came into view. I raised my arms without being asked and he pulled it over my head and dropped it somewhere behind him and then just looked.
His hands spread flat across my chest. Palms warm, fingers following the lines of the tattoos across my shoulders, tracing the ink down my arms with the deliberate attention of a man reading something he'd been wanting to read for a long time.
“Fuck,” he said quietly. Not to me. Just to the room.
His thumbs pressed into the muscle of my chest, feeling the shape of it, and my jaw tightened. Being looked at like this, being touched like this, by him, by Troy, was something I didn't have a category for yet.
He leaned down and pressed his mouth to my collarbone.
“Hhh—”
Lips dragging slow across the bone, then lower, tracing the tattoo that spread across my left pec, following the lines of the ink with his tongue like he was memorizing the pattern. His hands slid down my ribs, counting them, careful of nothing on his own body but exquisitely careful of mine.
“You have no idea,” he said against my chest, low and rough, “how long I've been thinking about this.”
I put my hand in his hair. Couldn't not.
He bit the muscle above my nipple, not hard, just enough. His mouth moved lower, lips tracing the cut lines of my stomach, tongue following the path of the V downward until it hit the waistband of my underwear and stopped there.
I looked down at him. His face tipped up toward mine, mouth at my stomach, eyes completely dark.
His hands went to my belt.
He worked it open with the same unhurried focus he'd brought to everything else tonight, fingers steady where mine would have shaken, and pulled it free of the loops and dropped it on the floor.
The button of my jeans next. The zipper.
His eyes stayed on my face through all of it, watching every microexpression, reading me the way he always had.
He pulled the jeans down my thighs. I lifted slightly off the table's edge to let them go, and they pooled around my feet and he crouched and got them off entirely and then stayed there.
On his knees. Looking up at me.
I'd never had a man on his knees in front of me before. The thought arrived with a clarity that was almost physical. Troy seemed to read it on my face because something in his expression shifted, the heat still there but something more careful underneath it.
“First time,” he said. Not a question.
My jaw tightened. “Yeah.”
He held my gaze for a moment. Then turned his face into the inside of my thigh and pressed his lips there and exhaled slow and warm against the skin, and whatever I'd been about to say dissolved entirely.
His hands moved up the outsides of my thighs. He leaned in and pressed his nose against the crease where my thigh met my groin, right at the edge of the underwear, and breathed in deep and slow.
“Troy—”
“Quiet.” His hands gripped my thighs harder.
He breathed in again, longer, his nose moving along the cotton, and a sound left his throat that was low and private and completely unguarded.
“You have no idea,” he said into my skin, muffled, “how many times I've thought about this. About you. About exactly this.”
I could feel the warmth of his breath through the cotton. Feel exactly how close his mouth was to where I was already thickening, the blood making slow decisions my brain hadn't caught up to authorizing. The fabric was doing nothing. He had to feel it.
He did.
His lips pressed against the outline of me through the underwear. Open-mouthed. Feeling the shape of it, the weight, his hands flat on my thighs keeping me exactly where he wanted me. I pulled in a breath through my teeth.
His tongue pressed flat against the cotton, tracing up the length of me slowly, and I felt the wet heat of it through the thin fabric and my hand went into his hair without any decision being made about it.
He mouthed at me through the underwear, lips and tongue working, and I was fully hard now, straining against the cotton, leaking enough that a damp spot was spreading through the fabric and his tongue found it immediately and pressed there and made a sound of low, rough approval.
“Already soaked,” he said against me. “Fuck, look at you.”
My other hand gripped the table edge hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
He pulled the waistband down. Slow. My cock came free and he wrapped one hand around the base and just held me there for a moment, looking, and the expression on his face was the same one I'd seen when he'd pressed his lips to my palm.
Then his tongue dragged up the underside from base to tip in one flat, devastating stroke.
My head dropped back. The sound I made wasn't a word.
He did it again. Slower. Lips following where his tongue had gone, kissing along the vein, and when he reached the head he pressed his lips to the wet slit and sucked gently and collected what had gathered there and made a sound like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
“You're soaking,” he said against the head. “First time with a man and you're already dripping for it.” His fist worked the base in a slow twist. “Your body knows what it wants even if you're still catching up.”
His fingers hooked the waistband where it had already slid halfway down my thighs and drew it the rest of the way. Slow. Unhurried. Watching my face the whole time until the cotton cleared my knees and he let it drop.
His hand was still wrapped around the base of me and he squeezed once, like he was checking the reality of it, and then looked up at me with dark eyes and a smirk that went straight to my spine. “Im going to ruin you.”
Before I could form a response his mouth closed over the head of me.
The sound I made hit the kitchen ceiling.
He went down slow on the first stroke, taking his time, letting me feel every inch of heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue along the underside, and I gripped the table edge with both hands and breathed through my nose and tried to remember how to function.
He pulled back. Did it again, deeper this time, and I felt the back of his throat and his groan vibrated all the way to the root of me.
My cock was still thickening. Even now. Even fully hard I felt myself getting heavier in his mouth, swelling further against his tongue, and the sounds he was making were unconscious and hungry and doing things to me I had no framework for.
He pulled off to breathe and looked up at me with wet lips and pupils blown wide and his hand working me in a slow twist that was making coherent thought genuinely unavailable.
“You just keep getting bigger,” he said, rough and wondering. “Fuck, how—”
“Troy.” His name came out with nothing attached to it. Just need.
He went back down. Deeper this time, working himself further, taking more, and I felt him stretch around me and the sounds were wet and open and the back of his throat worked against the head of me and my hand moved into his hair before I'd decided anything.
Tightened.
Troy made a sound of low approval that I felt everywhere.
That was it. Whatever patience I'd been holding onto, whatever this-is-wrong, this-is-my-stepson internal voice had been running underneath all of this, it went quiet. Completely. Replaced by something more animal and immediate and impossible to argue with.
I pushed down.
He took it. All of it. My hand in his hair pushing him to the base while my hips rolled forward off the table's edge, and the wet choked sound he made around me sent a pulse of heat through my entire body.
“Hhnn, fuck—” My own voice, barely recognizable.
I pulled him back. Pushed him down again.
Set a rhythm that had nothing gentle about it, his head moving in my grip, his hands braced against my thighs, and the sounds filling my kitchen were obscene.
Wet and messy and loud. His throat working around me each time I pushed deep, the slick heat of him pulling back on every stroke.
Saliva was everywhere. Running down the shaft, dripping onto his lips when I pulled back far enough, and I looked down and the sight of it was something I didn't have words for.
Troy on his knees between my thighs with his face wet and his mouth dark and swollen and his eyes watering slightly at the corners and every shred of careful armor he'd ever worn completely destroyed.
I spit on my cock. Watched it mix with everything already there.
Troy made a sound that wasn't a word and opened wider.
I gripped his jaw with my free hand, tilted his face up, and spit directly on his lips. He took it. Let it run. His tongue came out and he looked up at me while it dripped down his chin and the expression on his face was the most undone thing I'd ever seen on another human being.
“There,” he said, hoarse. “That's it. Give it to me.”
I pushed him back down.
He went. No resistance, no hesitation, just took the push and opened his throat around me and the sound he made was choked and grateful simultaneously, hands braced against my thighs, knuckles white with the effort of staying still and letting me use him.
I pulled him back by the hair and thrust forward and the wet obscene sounds of it filled the kitchen and bounced off every surface.
His lips were swollen dark. His chin was slick with saliva and pre-come and the mess of everything we'd done and he looked completely destroyed and his eyes were still on mine and I couldn't look away from them.
“Taking it so well,” I heard myself say.