6. Shay #4
“I was thinking,” he says, his voice gone soft, “that you might want some help with that.”
My laugh comes out thin and brittle. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
His hand leaves my hair, slides down between us. I watch, frozen, as he presses his palm against the soaked denim. He cups me through the jeans, his thumb pressing right where the head of my cock is trapped, and I make a sound I don’t recognize.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m cold.”
“No, you’re not.” He rubs slowly, the rough denim dragging against my cock, and my hips jerk into his hand. “You’re a mess for me. Soaked through your jeans like you’ve been waiting for this all night.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Shut up.”
“Why?” He keeps stroking me through the fabric, relentless and gentle. “You think I don’t want to taste this? I’ve been thinking about it since I first scented you.”
He withdraws his hand. My eyes fly open. He lifts his palm, and in the dim light I can see the glistening slick smeared across his fingers, thick and shiny. His gaze holds mine as he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue.
I can’t breathe.
“Just like I thought,” he says, voice rougher now. “You taste like mine.”
Everything inside me clenches.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, but it comes out like a prayer.
Declan leans forward, his hands going to the button of my jeans.
With him seated on the stool and me kneeling between his legs, he doesn’t have to reach far at all.
He pops the button, drags the zipper down, and shoves the denim and my boxers just low enough to free my cock.
It springs up, flushed and leaking, and he wraps his big hand around it without hesitation.
I can’t stop the moan that tears out of me. I grab his wrist for balance, my forehead dropping to his thigh. “Fuck, fuck—”
“That’s it,” he breathes, stroking me with long, slick pulls. “Let me hear you. You’re so fucking hard for me.”
He’s right. I’m aching, dripping onto his knuckles. I try to pull myself together, but he starts twisting his wrist on the upstroke and my brain short-circuits. I push into his fist, helpless, and open my mouth against his thigh, breathing hot and ragged into his skin.
“Take me back in your mouth, Shay.”
My body obeys before my brain can object.
I push up, clumsy, and wrap my lips around his cock again, moaning around him as he matches his rhythm to mine.
His hand strokes my cock with the same slow, deliberate pace as I take him, and I’m pinned between the two sensations, no room for thought.
Just the taste of him, heavy and salt-bitter, and the slick, obscene sounds of my own arousal filling the bar.
I try to go faster, to take back some control.
Declan’s fingers tighten in my hair, anchoring me, forcing my pace to slow. “Don’t rush. We’ve got all night.”
A frustrated noise gets caught in my throat.
His laugh is a low, soft sound. “There he is. So desperate to give it up, but you want to pretend you’re still calling the shots.”
I pull back, panting, a retort ready on my tongue.
His hand just tightens around my cock, a firm, steady pressure that steals the words. His thumb makes a slow circle over the head, and he watches my face while he does it. “You were saying?”
I glare at his thigh, trying to focus on anything but the slow, deliberate movement of his hand. But I’m falling apart and he knows it. My hips are rocking into his fist, my mouth open and wet.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs again.
“I’m— ah —” I lose the sentence when he picks up his pace, stroking me faster.
“No snappy comeback this time? Just my good boy, letting me take care of him.”
The praise sinks into me like a brand, and I moan around him, hollowing my cheeks, sucking hard. His control finally frays. His hips give a short, sharp jerk forward, and he groans my name like a curse.
I hum against him, a low, vibrating sound of victory, and he swears, choked and wrecked.
His fingers pull at my hair, his other hand moving faster on my cock.
My whole body is coiled, wound so tight I feel like a spring about to snap.
I need to come, and I need him to stay. The two thoughts are tangled up, a knot of panic in my chest.
“Come for me,” he says, voice raw. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
And that’s it. The wire snaps.
My orgasm hits like a shockwave, a hot, shuddering rush that makes my whole body clench. My cock pulses in his hand, spurting slick and come over his fingers, and I choke on a sob around him, one hand clutching his thigh to keep myself upright.
A low, sharp groan rumbles through his chest. “Fuck, Shay. I’m coming.”
He starts to pull out.
My hands clamp onto his hips before I even know I’m moving. Pure instinct.
Mine.
He freezes. For a split second, I see it in his eyes—shock, then something darker, hotter.
Then his hand fists in my hair, holding me in place, and he comes with a rough shout that echoes in the quiet bar.
He pulses in my throat, hot and thick, and I swallow, eyes squeezed shut, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his thighs.
He gasps my name, and it sounds like it’s been torn out of him.
The bar goes quiet. There’s only the sound of our ragged breathing.
I don’t move. I’m kneeling, jeans undone, his slick and my own cooling on my skin. His cock is softening against my tongue. His hand is still threaded in my hair, not holding me anymore, just resting there.
A thought drifts into the quiet.
Safe.
The word is a violation.
I recoil, scrambling back so fast my shoulder cracks against the underside of the bar. “Fuck.”
Declan’s instantly crouching. “Shay, are you—”
“I’m fine.” It comes out too loud, too sharp.
He freezes, his hand hovering in the air between us.
I snatch the bar towel off the floor. I rub it hard across my mouth, once, twice, like I can scrub the taste of him away. Like I can wipe off the praise, the way I held him here, the fact that I came apart in his hand because he told me I was good.
The bar is too quiet.
Just the sound of our breathing, harsh in the dim light. I’m on the floor, my back pressed against the cool wood of the bar front, clutching the towel he gave me. It’s warm from his body, soft from a hundred washes, and I hate myself a little for how good it feels.
Slowly, Declan pulls up his jeans. The rasp of the zipper is loud. He doesn’t look at me, just gives me space. The quiet courtesy of it feels like another kind of pressure.
“Shay,” he says, his voice low.
I shake my head. Can’t look at him.
I push myself up, my knees aching. My jeans are a cold, sticky mess, and I fumble with the button, my fingers refusing to work properly. He sees them shaking. He doesn’t say a word. That might be the worst part of all.
The silence stretches. I have to fill it. My eyes land on the mess of papers scattered across the bar top. My spreadsheets.
I grab a stack, squaring the edges with a sharp rap against the counter. “Saturday,” I say. My voice sounds thin. “Not this one. The one after. I need lead time.”
He just watches me. “Okay.”
“We need a work day. A full one. The booth upholstery is a disaster, and I need to take photos for the social accounts that don’t look like they were shot on a potato during a power outage.
” The words come out too fast, a jumble of tasks I’m using as a shield.
“And I need the lease paperwork. Rhys said he’d look at it. ”
“You’re bringing your friends.” It’s not a question.
“It’s a prep day.” I finally risk a look at him.
He’s standing on the other side of the bar, his shirt rumpled. Where he shoved up his sleeve, I can see the faint, fading outline of my teeth on his forearm. My mark.
He looks at me like he’s already decided where I fit. Like he’s found something he wasn’t looking for and has no intention of putting it back.
My fingers tighten on the towel in my hand.
His gaze drops to it, then lifts back to my face. A whole conversation happens in that quiet space. He knows what I’m holding on to.
“Saturday,” I repeat, the word feeling flimsy.
“Saturday,” he agrees, his voice calm and steady.
And the truly fucked-up part is that for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run. I just want it to be Saturday.