Chapter 15 Nothing Left to Hide #6
“Right there,” he said, suddenly sharp, head coming up off the pillow. “Right there, don't move, just—”
I pressed harder into that spot and his arms buckled.
“Hhnn—god—Declan—”
I leaned down and bit the lace band at the top of his stocking where it met his bare thigh and he made a sound that was beyond words entirely.
My fingers kept their rhythm, hard and deliberate now, and I turned my face into the back of his thigh and breathed him in again while he fell apart under my hands in the dark.
My fingers kept their rhythm, hard and deliberate now, and I turned my face into the back of his thigh and breathed him in again while he fell apart under my hands in the dark.
Then I stopped being careful about it.
The rhythm changed. Faster. Working him with two fingers in tight rapid strokes against that spot, the same relentless precision I'd learned from years of reading bodies, of knowing exactly where pressure becomes undoing, and Troy's spine went rigid and his hips drove back against my hand and the sounds pouring out of him were continuous and formless and loud enough that the neighbors were going to have opinions.
“Hh—hh—Declan—don't—”
“Don't stop?”
“Don't stop—” His fists had the pillowcase twisted completely out of shape. His thighs were shaking in earnest now, the lace stockings trembling with it, his whole body caught between pushing back onto my fingers and pulling away from the overwhelming precision of it.
I didn't stop.
Worked him faster still, wrist moving in tight controlled strokes, watching his back arch and release and arch again, watching the lace pull and shift across his ass with every movement.
He was making a sound now that was just one sustained broken note, not a word, not a name, just pure sensation with a voice attached to it.
My free hand slid around his hip.
Found the lace waistband. Hooked my fingers underneath it and pulled the fabric aside, freeing his cock, and wrapped my hand around him bare for the first time.
The sound he made when my palm closed around him was something I was going to carry for a long time.
He was soaked. Pre-come welling thick and continuous, coating my palm within the first stroke, slicking down my fingers, making every pull wet and obscene and audible in the dark bedroom.
The warmth of him. The weight. The way he twitched and pulsed in my grip with every simultaneous stroke of the fingers still buried inside him.
Both hands working him. One inside, one out, and Troy pressed his face into the pillow and made a sound that was someone losing the last of themselves entirely.
“Turn over,” I said. Rough. Barely recognizable.
He turned. Slower than earlier, limbs not entirely reliable, and when he was on his back he looked up at me with eyes that were glassed over and dark and a mouth that was swollen and open and still wet from before.
The lace sat crooked across his hips where I'd shifted it, his cock lying hard against his stomach, the stockings still intact on his legs, and the sight of him like this in the city light was something I had no language for.
I ran my mouth down the center of his chest.
Tasted sweat and heat and skin that smelled like him, uniquely him, the scent I'd been filing away without permission since the second week and was finally allowed to take all the way in.
His stomach tensed under my lips. My hand kept working his cock in slow strokes that were entirely about torment now, slick and easy from everything that had gathered in my palm.
His hand came down and covered mine.
Not stopping. Just pressing. Showing me the rhythm he wanted, tightening my grip fractionally, guiding the pace with a certainty that sent a pulse of heat straight to my cock.
I let him. Followed his lead, let his hand direct mine, and felt him exhale a long shaking breath when the speed landed exactly where he needed it.
His other hand went into my hair.
Pulled me up his body, not asking, just directing, and I went, dragging my mouth up his ribs and his chest until he pulled me fully over him and his mouth found mine.
The kiss was nothing like the ones in the kitchen.
His lips were already parted and his tongue pushed into my mouth immediately, tasting everything we'd been doing to each other, and his hand on the back of my head held me there with a grip that said he wasn't interested in softness.
I kissed him back just as hard. Felt his cock jump in my fist between us.
He pulled back half an inch and spit directly into my mouth.
I swallowed. His eyes tracked my throat. Then I gathered what I had and gave it back, and his body surged up against me and his grip in my hair went brutal and he kissed me through it, messy and open and past caring about anything.
I pulled back.
He made a sound of protest that I felt against my lips.
I grabbed both his thighs and pushed them up and back, folding him open, and the sound that replaced the protest was something entirely different.
His legs went where I put them without resistance, knees toward his chest, the lace stockings framing everything, the scrap of black fabric still pulled aside from before.
From this angle, in this light, everything exposed and open and waiting. Pink and soft and perfectly tight, still faintly slick from my fingers, the lace framing him like it had been designed for exactly this purpose.
My jaw tightened with want so acute it was almost anger.
“Fuck,” I said. Same word as earlier. A completely different meaning now.
His stomach clenched when he heard my voice. “Declan—”
“Quiet.” I pressed my lips to the inside of his thigh, just above the lace band of the stocking. Felt him shiver. “I've got you.”
I worked my mouth inward. Slow. Tasting the skin at the crease of his thigh, the warmth there, the specific heat that radiated from the center of him.
He smelled obscenely good. Musky and warm and entirely him, the same scent I'd been filing away without permission since the second week and was finally, finally allowed to take without apology.
I pressed my mouth directly against him.
The sound Troy made came from somewhere deep in his chest and had no consonants attached to it whatsoever.
I licked a slow flat stroke across him and felt his whole body contract.
His hands flew down, one gripping the back of my head, not pushing, just needing somewhere to hold.
I did it again, broader this time, the full flat of my tongue pressed against him, and tasted heat and salt and something beneath both that went straight to every animal part of my brain simultaneously.
I couldn't get enough of it.
I ate him with an attention that had nothing measured about it, tongue working slow circles, then pressing directly, then pulling back to drag wet open-mouthed kisses against him while he shook above me and made sounds that were going to live in my head permanently.
His grip in my hair tightened every time my tongue pushed against the center and I kept returning there, kept pressing in, feeling him open fractionally more each time.
“You taste—” I said it against him, lips moving on the words, felt him shudder at the vibration. “Fuck, Troy. You taste perfect.”
“Fuck—”
“Every time you walked through my kitchen.” I pressed my tongue flat and felt him twitch. “Every time you were close enough. I thought about this.” Another slow circle. His thigh against my jaw was shaking. “Thought about getting my mouth on you. Taking you apart exactly like this.”
“Declan, I'm going to—”
“No you're not.” I pulled back just enough, lips brushing against him without delivering. “Not yet.”
He said something into the pillow that was mostly profanity.
I went back in. Hands gripping the backs of his thighs, holding him exactly where I wanted him, face buried between while I worked him with lips and tongue and the occasional graze of teeth that made his spine bow clean off the mattress.
His sounds had gone formless again. Just continuous broken noise, his hand in my hair alternating between gripping and smoothing like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to hold on or push me closer.
I pressed my tongue in as far as it would go and groaned against him.
The vibration sent his hips rolling forward against my face, chasing it, and I let him, hands shifting to his ass through the lace, gripping the muscle there and pulling him harder into my mouth.
“Going to fill you up,” I said, low and rough, lips moving against him. “Get so deep inside you. Breed you until you can't think straight.” I licked another slow stroke that made him gasp. “My stepson. Mine.”
His cock pulsed against his stomach, slicking fresh heat across his skin.
I pulled back.
Reached across him to the nightstand, not taking my eyes off his face, and my hand found the lube by feel.
The click of the cap opening was loud in the quiet bedroom.
Troy's eyes tracked downward, watching my hands, watching me pour the slick into my palm with a deliberateness that was entirely about making him wait.
I wrapped my hand around myself.
The sound I made was involuntary. I'd been hard for so long that the first stroke of a properly slicked fist sent white across the edges of my vision for a half second. I kept my eyes on Troy's face while I stroked myself slow and thorough, watching his expression do things he couldn't control.
His throat moved. Swallowing.
“On all fours,” I said.
He moved. Rolled over, got his hands and knees under him, the black lace stockings catching the dim light, the scrap of underwear still pulled aside from earlier.
The arch of his back was instinctive, spine dipping, presenting, his body knowing exactly what this was before his brain could argue with it.
I stayed where I was and kept stroking.