Chapter 16 Silas #2
He leans in, smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And you have a Daddy kink, apparently.”
My hand finds the edge of the desk behind him. Grip tightening. Grounding. Because if I don’t hold on to something, I might grab him.
He laughs—light and unbothered, as though he didn’t just detonate something in my chest. “You gonna spank me for being a brat or just keep staring like I’m your favorite bad idea?”
I lean in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on my lips as I whisper, “Go.”
His lashes flutter, mouth parting like he might disobey. As if he wants me to make him stay. But he doesn’t move. Because he can’t. I’m still caging him in, my body a wall between him and the door. I can’t even make myself move away from him, it’s like I’m drawn to him on a cellular level.
He glances down at my hand on the desk, then back up, that sinful little smirk tugging at his lips.
“Daddy,” he purrs, voice pure fucking mischief now that he knows what that does to me. “You gonna let me go, or do I need to beg for that, too?”
My fingers flex, every muscle in my body screaming to not move. To keep him right here and remind him exactly who’s in charge. But I release the desk. I step back.
Barely.
“Go,” I say again—rougher this time. Strained.
He licks his lips. But he doesn’t move. Just stands there, that fucking cocky little smirk tilting his mouth still, eyes dragging over me as though he owns me.
“You need to step back more than that,” he says softly.
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because he’s right—I didn’t move enough to let him pass. Not really. I’m still standing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. I could still grab him and press him into the desk.
Luke leans in again, barely a breath between us.
“You sure you want me to go?” he asks. “Because you look like you’re about to lose your goddamn mind.”
I clench my jaw. “Luke—”
“I can help,” he murmurs. “You’re tense, Coach. I could take care of that.”
My pulse kicks hard in my throat. He shifts closer, hands sliding to my waist. His fingers hook into my joggers.
“Unless you want to keep pretending you don’t want this. That you didn’t jerk off to the sight of me last night. That you’re not hard right now, just from me calling you Daddy.”
“Luke.”
“Let me,” he says, already sinking to his knees. “Let me take care of you.”
Maldita sea.
My hand fumbles for something—anything—solid to hold on to. A chair. A cabinet. Doesn’t matter. I need something to keep me from grabbing him by the hair and taking everything he’s offering.
He palms me through my joggers, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking up to mine. I’m panting. I didn’t even notice. My chest is rising and falling as if I was the one that just ran sprints.
“You want me to stop?” he asks, lips ghosting the bulge in my pants.
I don’t say a word. Because if I do—I’m going to say yes to all the wrong things.
He mouths me through the fabric, his tongue wetting it enough for me to feel it. His fingers toy with the string keeping them up, slowly tugging it loose.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
I grit my teeth. “Maldita sea.”
He runs his fingers along the band, dipping in enough to brush my crown. “Not what I said, Coach.”
My hand finds the edge of the file cabinet beside us, fingers curling over the cool metal. I don’t trust my voice, so I stay quiet. Inhaling roughly through my nose.
He takes that as permission. His fingers toy with the drawstring of my joggers, slow and deliberate, as if he’s giving me time to stop him.
I don’t.
Can’t.
A growl rumbles in my chest—low, warning, and absolutely useless.
“You really like playing with fire,” I mutter.
Luke’s mouth curves into a sinfully smug grin. “You wore gray joggers, Coach. That’s basically foreplay.”
I exhale hard through my nose. “Maldito.” Dammit.
The string comes loose under his fingers, fabric parting just enough for skin to meet air. His knuckles brush my stomach as he leans closer, breath warm and teasing against my abdomen. I shut my eyes for one second—just to hold on to the last shred of control I have.
“Last chance,” he murmurs.
My eyes snap open, finding him staring up at me like an angel. I cup his jaw, thumb dragging over his cheek, then his lower lip, already picturing them wrapped around me. I’m not strong enough for this.
“Eres un problema,” I whisper.
“Spanish is your go-to when you’re all turned on, isn’t it?” Luke murmurs, eyes glittering like he knows exactly what kind of hold he has on me. “It’s hot. So feel free to shower me with all the sexy words you have.”
He slides his hands under the waistband of my joggers and boxers in one slow, sinfully practiced motion.
“Dios mío,” I breathe, the words rough, reverent. My hand stays cradling his jaw as the elastic glides down my thighs and over my knees, leaving me bare in the one place I’ve been aching for him.
Luke leans forward, lips ghosting over my hip. “You’ve worn these gray joggers so many times, and every time, I’ve pictured myself just like this.”
I huff out a sound that’s half laugh, half curse. “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, eyes dropping lower, pupils blown wide. “It’s a fantasy come true.”
The air between us crackles. The heat of his hands settle at my thighs, steady. Like he’s not nervous at all and he’s been on his knees a million times in the past. And maybe he has.
But never like this.
Not with someone who’s supposed to be off-limits, who should be shutting this down, but can’t.
He looks up at me again, holding my gaze. “I want to taste you.”
“Then do it.”
That’s all the permission he needs. He tilts his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss just above my hipbone, slowly dragging his tongue over my skin. I groan, low and broken, my hand sliding to the back of his neck, threading through his curls.
“Más lento,” I whisper. “Lo voy a perder.”
Luke smirks against my skin. “No clue what that means, but it sounded filthy.”
I shake my head, breath shallow. “It means I’m gonna lose it.”
“Good.”
His mouth finds the crease of my thigh next, soft kisses that make my whole body tense. His hands grip my hips to hold me steady as he presses forward, all teasing heat and promise.
His lips brush lower. Then lower still.
By the time he reaches the base of my cock, my hand is shaking in his hair, fighting the instinct to thrust forward—fighting the need to fuck his mouth the way I’ve dreamed about since the first time I saw him. But I won’t. I can’t.
Because this isn’t about power. This is about him choosing me.
Luke parts his lips, tongue flicking out in one slow stroke over my slit that has me gasping through my teeth. His eyes never leave mine.
“Mierda,” I mutter, my voice rough and wrecked. “Eres… demencial.”
“Still don’t speak Spanish,” he says with a wicked grin, hand stroking me slowly and deliberately as he leans forward. “But I’m guessing that wasn’t an insult.”
It wasn’t.
It was the opposite.
It was a prayer.
He wraps his mouth around me in one long glide, lips plush and warm, tongue pressed tight underneath as he sinks down. I hiss, every muscle locking, my free hand flying to the edge of the desk behind him for balance as I fight the urge to fall apart too fast.
“Luke,” I breathe. “Fuck—”
He moans in response, like the sound of my voice alone is enough to wreck him. It vibrates through me like a shot straight to the spine, and I swear to god, if he keeps that up, I’m going to lose every ounce of control I’ve ever had.
His rhythm is torturous. Skilled. Slow enough to drag it out, fast enough to keep my body burning for more. His hand works in time with his mouth, twisting and stroking, and when he pulls back just to suck my balls into his mouth before licking a stripe up the underside, I nearly fall apart.
“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” I growl, fingers tightening in his hair. “Mírame.”
He does, remembering the command from our first time. Eyes wide. Lips swollen. Mouth open as he takes me back in again—until I hit the back of his throat, and he gags slightly.
“Good boy,” I whisper, and I feel him shiver.
Fuck. I feel everything.
The heat. The pressure. The emotion curling so tight in my chest I can barely breathe. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
And when he moans again—when I feel the slick pull of his mouth, the way he strokes me like he wants to blow—I know I’m not going to last.
“Luke—” My voice breaks. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m—”
His hand squeezes my thigh, his mouth never stopping, and I let go. With a broken curse and a full-body shudder, I come hard, my knees buckling slightly, my hips stuttering forward as he takes it, every last drop, until I’m spent and shaking and completely fucking ruined.
When he finally pulls off, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, he grins up at me—cocky and so fucking gorgeous.
And mine. God help me, I want him to be mine.
I reach for him, still breathless, and run my hand through his hair again—gentler this time. Reverent.
“Ven aquí,” I whisper.
Luke rises slowly, deliberately, until we’re chest to chest again.
“What’s that mean?”
“Come here,” I reply, even though he’s less than a breath away.
“Look at that, I’m a good boy without even trying,” he says.
I manage a small laugh, still dazed from my orgasm. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose against mine. “But you like that about me.”
I do. Too fucking much.