Chapter 15 Nothing Left to Hide #5
Troy's eyes went darker. He pressed forward into the thrust, taking me deeper than I'd pushed, and the sound that came out of him around my cock was muffled and desperate and sent heat crashing down my spine.
I gripped his jaw with both hands. Tilted his face up. Watched his throat work around me from this angle and the visual nearly undid me entirely, the thick stretch of his lips, the tears tracking from the corners of his eyes from the depth of it, none of it pain, all of it want.
I pulled back enough to let him breathe.
He gasped. Mouth open, chest heaving, saliva strung between his lips and the head of my cock catching the kitchen light, and his eyes were absolutely wrecked and completely certain at the same time.
“Again,” he said, voice barely there. “Don't stop.”
I pushed back in. Felt the back of his throat and kept going, felt him swallow around me, felt his hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise and I didn't care about that, drove forward twice more until he was making continuous sounds that weren't words, just noise, just desperate wet noise that was the most honest thing I'd heard from him since he'd walked back through my door.
I spit down onto him. Watched it land on his cheek and run. He turned his face into it like it was something precious.
Something in me snapped clean through.
I pulled him up off his knees by the back of his neck, hauling him to his feet in one motion, and his mouth crashed into mine before he'd fully straightened.
He tasted like me. Entirely, unmistakably like me, salt and heat and everything that had been happening on his knees, and the shock of tasting myself on his tongue sent a sound out of me that I felt in my chest.
He kissed me back with everything. Both hands grabbing my face, body pressing into mine, and I felt all of him, the hard line of his cock against my hip, the mess still wet on his chin smearing against my jaw, the shaking in his hands from being on his knees too long.
I wrapped both arms around him and lifted.
He went up without protest, legs coming around my waist, and I had him, all of him, his weight real and solid and considerable against my chest, his mouth still working against mine while I got my bearings and turned toward the hallway.
He bit my lip. Hard.
I tightened my arms and kept walking.
The house was dark past the kitchen light.
I moved through it from memory, navigating the hallway, Troy's mouth at my jaw now and then my neck and the bite he left there was going to show for days and I didn't care.
His hands were in my hair and his thighs gripped my hips and his body radiated heat like something burning and every step toward the bedroom felt like the last several weeks of careful distance compressing into nothing.
My shoulder hit the door frame. Neither of us stopped.
The bedroom came into view, city light filtering through the curtains, and I moved toward the bed with him still wrapped around me and his mouth still at my throat.
I threw him.
Not viciously. But not gently either. His back hit the mattress and the breath came out of him in a rush and he looked up at me from where he'd landed with his hair wrecked and his mouth swollen and his eyes dark and satisfied, like being thrown onto a bed was exactly where he'd been trying to end up for weeks.
I reached for his jeans.
Got them open and hauled them down his thighs in one pull, and that's when I stopped.
The city light caught the fabric first. Something dark and sheer stretched across his hips, a scrap of black lace sitting low and deliberate.
And below that, running from mid-thigh down to his ankle, sheer black stockings, lace at the top band, clinging to the muscle of his legs with an intimacy that hit me somewhere below rational thought.
I stood at the end of the bed and looked at him.
Troy held my gaze without flinching. Chin slightly lifted. Daring me to have a reaction he couldn't predict.
My hands were shaking.
“Fuck,” I said. The word came out stripped of everything except what it was.
Something flickered in his expression. Uncertainty cutting briefly through the heat.
I got onto the bed.
Ran both hands up the outside of his legs, palms against the sheer stockings, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric, the muscle beneath.
He exhaled. My thumbs traced the lace band at the top of the stockings where they met the bare skin of his upper thighs and I pressed there, into the gap between lace and skin, and felt him shiver.
I left them on.
Ran my mouth along the inside of his thigh, lips dragging against the sheer fabric, teeth catching the lace band and pressing without biting, and the sound he made above me was low and startled and genuine.
My mouth moved higher. To the lace at his hips. I nosed along the waistband, breathing him in, the musk of him concentrated and warm through the fabric, and pressed my lips against the outline of his cock through the thin lace and felt him twitch against my mouth.
“Declan—”
“I watched you.” The words came out against his hip. “With Rafael. You didn't know I was home.”
The silence that followed lasted two full seconds.
“What.” His voice was barely there.
“The door wasn't closed.” I pressed my lips to the lace, open-mouthed, felt the heat of him through it. “I should have walked away but I couldn't move.”
His breathing had gone ragged above me. “Fuck.”
“Watched him take you apart.” My hands slid under his thighs, spreading him, thumbs stroking the sensitive crease there.
“Watched you take it. Watched your face.” I looked up at him along the length of his body, his chest heaving, the lace stockings framing everything.
“I went upstairs and I couldn't get it out of my head for days. Kept seeing your face when you—”
“Stop.” The word came out wrecked. “If you keep talking I'm going to—”
“What.” I pressed my mouth hard against the lace. “Come apart?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. Completely honest.
I dragged my tongue up the full length of him through the fabric, felt the wet spread across the lace, felt him strain against it, and his hips lifted off the mattress and I pressed them back down with both palms flat.
He tried to roll his hips again.
I flipped him over.
One hand on his hip, turning him face-down into the mattress before either of us had processed the decision, and he went with a sharp inhale that had nothing reluctant in it.
The lace pulled tight across his ass from this angle, sheer and dark against the muscle, stockings running the length of his legs and catching the city light through the curtains in a way that made my chest tight.
My hand came down.
The crack of it filled the bedroom and Troy's whole body lurched forward and the sound he made into the pillow was muffled and genuine and completely undone.
I pressed my palm flat where I'd struck. Feeling the heat radiating up through my hand, the sheer lace warm beneath my palm. He was shaking slightly. Just his thighs. Just that small involuntary tremor.
I did it again on the other side.
“Hhhff—” He turned his face sideways on the pillow, jaw slack, eyes wet. “Declan—”
“I know.” My hand smoothed over the lace, slow, tracing the curve beneath. “I know.”
I leaned down and pressed my mouth to the small of his back.
Felt the jump of muscle there beneath my lips.
He smelled like sweat and heat and something underneath both that was just Troy, specifically and unmistakably Troy, a scent I'd been cataloguing without permission since the first week he'd moved back in and stood too close in the kitchen and I'd had to find somewhere else to look.
I let myself have it now. Pressed my face into the curve of his lower back and breathed in deep and slow, the way he'd done to me earlier, and felt him shiver violently.
My hands ran down the backs of his thighs.
Palms against the stockings, feeling the warmth of the muscle beneath the sheer fabric, the defined shape of him.
I pressed my thumbs into the backs of his knees and heard him exhale hard.
Dragged both palms back up the inside of his thighs, slower, and felt him spread for me incrementally, giving me more, making space.
My mouth followed my hands. Lips against the stockings at the back of his thigh, tongue pressing through the sheer fabric, tasting heat and skin through thin nylon. I bit gently and felt him twitch.
I worked my way up.
Got my face into the crease where his thigh met his ass and breathed him in again, deeper this time, hotter and sharper this close. The lace pulled tight between his cheeks and I pressed my lips there and heard a sound come out of him that had no word attached to it.
My thumb hooked the center of the lace.
Pulled it aside. Just barely. Just enough.
He was pink and tight and perfect and I ran my thumb across him once, just once, and his whole body clenched and released in the same breath.
I gathered spit on my tongue, pressed it to the pad of my finger, and pushed inside.
The sound Troy made was not quiet.
I felt every centimeter of the way he opened around my finger, slow and warm and clenching rhythmically, his hands fisting in the pillow above his head. I stayed still for a moment, letting him adjust, my other hand stroking the lace across his hip in slow circles.
Then I moved.
Curled my finger slowly, finding angles, watching his back arch in real time, reading every shift of his spine for information. He pushed back against my hand. I pressed deeper.
“More,” he said into the pillow. Barely a word.
I added a second finger, still slick, and felt him stretch around both and the sound he made was low and long and rolled through his chest like something breaking loose.
My free hand spread flat across the small of his back, feeling every micro-movement, every clench and shiver, while my fingers worked deeper.