Chapter 22
IVY
My departure time looms over me.
There’s something about airport days.
It doesn’t matter if my flight is at nine in the morning or eleven-thirty at night—I can’t relax.
Even if I have hours to spare, I’m antsy—on edge—checking my watch every five minutes to make sure I don’t miss my window to get there.
If I leave at this time, I’ll get there early.
If I wait ten more minutes, I’ll still be fine.
But what if traffic—what if security—what if something goes wrong?
My brain keeps running the math—hypotheticals, contingencies, over and over.
I try to fold a tank top and unfold it again. I pace from the bed to the window and back, palms damp, bones buzzing.
And there’s something about it that seems heavier today.
I don’t want to leave Soren. Or Ravelle, for that matter. It’s only been a few days, but there’s a sense of belonging here for me already that I never had in Miami, or many of the places I lived prior.
I’m not fully comfortable—and I definitely feel like a guest—but I also don’t feel judged, or the need to hang out in a stifling little room.
It’s as if something inside me has finally unclenched. Just a little, but it’s something.
Taking a break, I walk into the kitchen.
Soren watches me, never getting too far away. He leans against the counter, arms folded, lazy smile tucked in one corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly how wound up I am—and exactly how to unwind me.
His eyes drag over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every twitch, every restless shift.
And he’s wearing those damn gray sweatpants again.
They should be a crime.
The fabric clings to his thighs, dips at his hips, and the longer I look, the more the outline right at the center presses against the cotton—thickening, nudging at the seam.
God.
It’s unmistakable. Thick. Heavy. Already hard.
Heat blooms across my chest and creeps up my throat. I can’t not look. My gaze sticks there, like I physically can’t pull it away. My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, a sudden rush of saliva flooding in.
I want it.
The thought hits hard, settling low in my belly, spreading heat outward.
He catches me staring.
Of course he does.
His smirk deepens, tongue sliding out to wet his lower lip, slow and obscene. “Got something on your mind, stray?”
My cheeks go hot, but I don’t look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It comes out breathy. Weak. A lie we both hear.
His eyes darken.
I try to look away, fail, and my gaze returns to the growing swell between his legs.
“Mmhmm,” he growls, closing the distance between us in two long steps.
His hand comes up, hooking into my belt loop, yanking me forward until my body bumps into his—and stops.
The hard length of him presses against my stomach.
I suck in a breath.
His head dips, his mouth brushing near my forehead. His thumb flicks against the belt loop, pulling me closer, grinding me subtly against him. His voice is low and rough. “I know what you were looking at. Want to see more, stray?”
My mouth goes dry—then floods with saliva. I nod.
That’s all it takes.
He backs up just enough to stand in front of me, never taking his eyes off me as he slides his thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants.
He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, exposing himself inch by inch—the V of muscle, the line leading down.
My breath stutters.
Nothing like a chiseled pair of cum gutters to render a girl speechless.
The cotton puddles at his feet, followed by black boxer briefs.
His cock springs free, thick and heavy, slapping lightly against his lower abdomen before settling, flushed and hard.
I inhale sharply because god, it’s huge.
The skin is flushed and silk-smooth, a vein running the length of the underside.
And then I see it. The metal glinting at the tip. A sizable Prince Albert—a thick ring I want to grab and pull.
My eyes widen, and then drop lower.
A row of barbells on the underside.
My mouth actually falls open. “Oh my god,” I whisper.
A Jacob’s ladder.
What other secrets is this man keeping?
Although, to be honest, right now these are the only ones I’m interested in.
My core clenches hard, heat pooling between my thighs so fast it makes me dizzy.
He watches my reaction, clearly enjoying every second of it. “You like this?” he murmurs.
I don’t answer verbally.
Instead, I drop to my knees in front of him, the kitchen floor cool against my skin, and wrap my fingers around the base of his shaft. Hot and rigid in my grip, the vein pulsing like a heartbeat.
The metal of the barbells gleams under the light, cool and smooth against my touch as I stroke upward, feeling each ridge bump against my fingertips.
His cock twitches in response, the Prince Albert ring shifting slightly with the motion.
My hands land on his thighs, fingers digging into the muscle as I lean in, my breath ghosting over his cock. I eye it ravenously, the drop of precum teetering on the tip, calling to me, teasing for me to reach out with my tongue.
I lean closer, tongue darting out—I lick it. It’s warm and slick, coating my tongue as I swirl it around the head, tracing the curve of the ring with deliberate laps.
A soft, experimental swipe, tasting him. Warm. Slightly salty. My eyes flutter.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
That’s all the encouragement I need.
I wrap my hand around him, fingers barely meeting, and guide him toward my mouth. My lips part, and I take him in slowly, stretching around the thickness, feeling the cool metal of the piercing brush against my tongue.
His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and I feel the barbells press against my lower lip as I take more of him in.
It sends a shock straight through me. I moan around him.
His hand comes up instantly, fingers tangling in my hair—not pulling, just holding me there. Possessive. “That’s it,” he mutters. “Take it.”
I slide down further, inch by inch, until I feel the stretch at the back of my throat. My eyes water, but I don’t pull away. I breathe through my nose, adjusting, relaxing, taking more.
His hips jerk again. “Jesus—”
I pull back, then take him in again. Slow. My tongue presses along the underside, tracing over the barbells, feeling every ridge, every piece of him.
He groans, head tipping back.
I tighten my lips as I pull up, then sink down again, faster this time. My hand twists at the base, matching the movement of my mouth.
Wet sounds fill the space.
I suck gently at first, my cheeks hollowing as I draw him deeper, the thickness stretching my mouth wide. The thick metal ring rubs against the roof of my mouth with each bob of my head, a rhythmic friction that sends vibrations through me.
His skin is velvet-soft over the unyielding hardness, and I hum around him, feeling it echo back in his low rumble.
My free hand cups his balls, heavy and warm, rolling them gently as I pick up speed, my saliva dripping down his shaft to mix with the wetness gathering at the base.
He tightens his grip in my hair, guiding my rhythm now, his breaths coming in sharp pants. “Look at me,” he orders.
I look up at him through my lashes—still moving, my lips stretched around him.
His lazy smile twists into something feral as he thrusts shallowly into my mouth.
The barbells catch against my tongue on every slide out, a teasing drag that makes my core clench with heat. My thighs press together, slickness building between them, my body aching from the way his scent—musky and masculine—fills my senses.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You look so good like this. Taking my cock in your pretty mouth so well.”
Heat floods my body.
I take him deeper, relaxing my throat to swallow around the head, the Prince Albert bumping against the back as I gag slightly, tears pricking my eyes.
He hisses, his free hand bracing against the counter behind him, knuckles whitening.
I pull back with a wet pop, stroking him firmly with my hand while I catch my breath, then dive back in. I alternate between long, slow licks along the ladder—feeling each barbell under my tongue—and frantic sucking that has him bucking harder.
I let him set the pace, my jaw loosening, my throat opening as much as it can to take him fully.
My core throbs. I can feel how wet I am, slick and aching, desperate for friction.
“Yeah,” he pants. “Just like that—fuck—.” His movements turn rougher. More urgent. His breathing breaks.
I take him deeper, pushing past the discomfort, letting my nose brush his skin as I swallow around him.
That does it.
His whole body tenses. “Fuck, I’m—”
His thighs tense under my touch, muscles coiling like springs, and I know he’s close.
I hollow my cheeks again, sucking with everything I have, my hand twisting at the base in time with my mouth.
He thrusts deep, holding me there as he comes. Hot and thick, flooding my mouth in pulses, hitting the back of my throat.
I swallow what I can, taking what he gives me. The briny taste coats my tongue and slides down my throat, but some of it spills out anyway, seeping past my lips, dripping down my skin in sticky trails.
His hips continue to buck as the final waves of his orgasm run their course, each thrust shallower than the last until he’s spent, his cock softening slightly in my mouth.
I finally pull back, gasping for air.
A string of saliva and cum stretches between us—then snaps.
He looks down at me, chest heaving, eyes blown wide.
“Fuck,” he groans, voice low and wrecked. “I like the way you look with my cum all over your mouth, my dirty little stray.”
His words, his voice deep and low, send bolts of electricity to my nipples and my core.
My body is on fire—nipples hard, pussy throbbing, wetness soaking through my panties, thighs slick.
I lick my lips, tasting him again.
“I’d love to reciprocate,” he says, voice still rough, stepping closer, his hand brushing under my chin, tilting my face up. “Because I can’t stop thinking about the way your pussy tastes.”
My breath catches.
His thumb drags across my lower lip, smearing the last of his release.
“But,” he adds, a hint of amusement slipping back in as he glances at his watch, “we need to get you to the airport if you’re going to catch this flight.”
He tucks himself back into his sweatpants, then grabs me by my hair and pulls me to my feet.
Reality crashes back in.
My stomach drops.
Fuck.