6. Shay #3
Declan just looks down at me. Not past me, at the spreadsheets on the bar behind him. At me. His eyes are dark, his beard neat. He’s still got that stupid bar towel slung over his shoulder, like he’s someone’s hot, divorced uncle who has opinions about bourbon and knows how to fix a leaky faucet.
His hand comes up slow, giving me more than enough time to pull back. It settles against the side of my neck, his thumb brushing the tender skin right over his bite. I stop breathing.
“Shay,” he says.
I hate how quiet he sounds. Hate that he says my name like it’s something real, not just a line item on a spreadsheet.
“Don’t,” I mutter.
His thumb goes still. “Don’t what?”
“Do the voice.”
“What voice?”
“That one.” I glare up at him. “The reasonable, emotionally mature one. It’s creepy.”
A low laugh rumbles in his chest. Completely unfair. Then his fingers curl lightly around the back of my neck. Not holding me, just…there. “You started this,” he says.
“And you want to be in charge.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
The word just lands in the space between us. I had three different sarcastic comebacks ready to go, and he just erases them. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn it into another challenge. He just stays there, big and solid and hard under my hand, waiting.
Which is worse. So much worse.
Because now I actually have to do something.
I hook two fingers under the waistband of his jeans and tug. “Help me out here.”
Declan’s gaze drops to my mouth. “Bossy.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“No.” His hands go to his belt. “Not even close.”
The buckle gives with a soft metallic click. Then the button, the zip. Declan pushes his jeans and boxers down just enough, and his cock springs free, thick and hard, the head already flushed a deep, angry red. A pearl of precome glistens at the slit.
I’ve had my hands on him. I know the weight of him, the way that vein jumps when he’s about to come.
But seeing him from down here, aimed at my mouth, is a completely different thing.
My own body remembers, my hole clenching so tight I have to bite the inside of my cheek.
He’s just… big. Not in the exaggerated way guys talk.
Just factually, annoyingly large. Thick enough that my fingers won’t meet when I wrap my hand around the base. My mouth is already watering.
Declan is watching my face, of course he is. Catching every flicker of it.
“Still think you’re in charge?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
I look up at him. “Trying to compensate for something, Byrne?”
A slow, lazy smile spreads across his mouth. “You seemed to like it last time.”
“I had complaints.”
“You also came three times,” he says, not like a jab, just a fact. “But go on.”
God, I hate him.
I lean in and drag my tongue from the base of his cock all the way to the tip, catching that bead of salt and bitter.
His breath catches. It’s not a loud sound, just a hitch low in his chest, but it’s enough.
I roll my tongue over the crown, tracing the ridge, and his hips give a tiny, helpless twitch.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
“Language,” I say, and take him into my mouth.
He groans, and this one is louder. I keep my eyes on his, working my way down slowly.
My jaw has limits, and I’m not an idiot.
My tongue flattens against the underside while my hand strokes the length I can’t take, spit slicking my palm until the glide turns easy and wet.
Declan’s head tips back against the shelves of liquor, his throat exposed.
A low, vibrating sound rumbles in his chest.
I pull off with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting my bottom lip to his cock, and pump him with my fist while I catch my breath. “You’re welcome.”
His eyes open, dark and heavy-lidded. “Is that what this is?”
“A professional consultation,” I say, kissing the swollen head. “Services rendered.”
“Right.”
I take him back into my mouth before he can say anything else. I am good at this. I know how to find the cracks in someone’s control, how to make them lose their balance. It’s a system. You keep them wanting, you set the pace, and you don’t give them an inch until—
Declan’s hand settles in my hair.
The thought just dissolves.
He doesn’t push my head down, doesn’t grip or pull. His palm is just there, broad and warm against my scalp, his fingers threading into my curls. Then his thumb brushes once, very gently, over my temple.
My mouth goes slack around him. The careful rhythm I’d been holding together just falls apart. A needy, pathetic noise crawls up my throat and I choke on it, heat flooding my face.
“Good boy,” he says, low and rough.
My brain goes completely quiet. The spreadsheets, the sarcastic comeback I was drafting, all of it vanishes. There’s only the heavy weight of him on my tongue and the slow, humiliating gush of slick soaking through my jeans. I can feel it, hot and wet, sliding down my thigh.
Declan feels the change. His hand stills in my hair, his hips freezing an inch from my mouth. He waits. The silence is worse than a question.
I should pull away, say something sharp, put the walls back up. Instead, I make another small, broken sound around him, and my ears burn.
His pupils blow out, a flicker of heat in the dark green. “Shay.” His fingers flex once, a barely-there pressure against my scalp. “Look at me.”
I do.
There’s no smirk. No satisfaction. He looks wrecked. One hand is braced white-knuckled on the bar behind him, his chest rising and falling hard under his Henley. He’s holding himself back.
That makes this so much harder.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, his voice rough. It’s just a question. No command underneath it, no trap.
My throat works, but nothing comes out. I give my head a tiny, jerky shake.
His thumb brushes my temple again. “Want my hand off you?”
“No,” I manage to whisper.
“Okay.” He doesn’t move. “Take your time, then.”
Take my time. Like I’m not kneeling on a dirty floor with slick dripping down my legs. Like the bite on my neck isn’t pulsing with heat. I glare up at him, because it’s the only move I have left. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“I’m enjoying you,” he says, and my stomach twists into a knot.
I can’t think of a single thing to say to that, so I shove him back into my mouth, deeper this time.
Declan curses, a raw sound torn from his throat.
His hand tightens, not to push, just to hold me steady while I take him all the way to the back of my throat.
I gag around him, a full-body clench, and a gush of fresh slick spills into my boxers.
My eyes water. I hate how much I like the feeling of his fingers tangled in my curls.
I hate that the second he gives me permission to slow down, all I want to do is go harder.
I pull back, dragging in a breath through my nose, spit trailing down my chin.
His laugh is a broken thing, halfway to a groan.
This is my show. I’m running it. I try to find a rhythm again, slow and deliberate, my hand twisting at the base of his cock while my mouth works the rest. The wet, filthy sounds are loud in the quiet bar. My knees ache. His thumb strokes my temple once more, and something inside me gives way.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice strained. “Just like that. Fuck, look at you taking all of me.”
The rhythm dissolves.
My mouth slips, and I have to catch myself with a hand on his thigh, panting. Spit shines on the head of his cock, dripping onto my fist.
Declan just watches me, his breathing ragged.
He doesn’t laugh. He just crouches in front of me, his body blocking the dim light from the bar. His jeans are still pushed down, cock aimed right at my face. He cups my jaw.
“You okay?”
His thumb brushes my cheekbone, and I have to fight the urge to lean into the touch. “I’m fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.” I shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing against a wall. “Stop turning this into a thing. I’m trying to get you off.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Right. My mistake.”
He looks at me for another long second, his thumb tracing the seam of my lips. Then he pulls a stool over and sits, his legs falling open, giving me room. The choice is mine again.
It’s the most infuriatingly considerate thing he could do.
I grab his cock and take him back in my mouth before I can second-guess it.
This time, there’s no strategy. I just want him. I take him deeper, greedier, letting him fill my throat until my eyes water. His hand finds my hair again, fingers threading through my curls, and I press into his palm. The thought that this feels safe is a betrayal I don’t have time to process.
The bar fills with our scents, warm and tangled, and I know I’m going to regret it.
“Fuck, Shay,” Declan breathes, his voice tight.
I hum around him, and his hips give a sharp, involuntary jerk.
“Don’t do that.”
I pull off just enough to talk. “Thought I was in charge.”
“You are.”
“Then don’t give me orders.”
His hand tightens, just a fraction. Not a threat, just a reminder. My own cock jumps hard in my jeans.
“You’re on your knees,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You sure you want to argue about this right now?”
My whole body lights up. I should say something sharp, something that cuts him down.
Instead, I just open my mouth for him.
Declan’s eyes go dark. “That’s my good boy.”
And there it is. The crack that runs right through me.
A low, helpless moan escapes me, vibrating against his skin. He swears, a rough sound torn from his throat. One hand braces on the bar top, the other fists in my hair, holding me steady as I work him faster.
My thighs press together, a useless defense. Slick soaks through my jeans, hot and humiliating. I shift on my knees, trying to get some friction, any friction at all.
He notices. Of course he does.
His hand stills in my hair, making me stop. I look up, panting.
His gaze drops to my crotch.
I follow it. A dark, wet patch is spreading across the denim, the fabric clinging obscenely to my bulge.
Oh, God.
“Don’t,” I say, the word coming out thin.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”