Chapter 7 #4
I take a beat to look at him—the long line of him, the lean muscle of his shoulders, the dip at the small of his back, the curve of his ass. I press a kiss to the small of his back. Another, lower. My hands settle on his thighs and I push them apart.
He goes still.
"Atlas?"
"Yes, baby."
"You're not—"
"I am."
"Atlas—"
"Quiet, sweetheart. Open up for me."
I'm two minutes from doing what I came up here to do—take this man apart, my own words, my promise, the thing I've been thinking about for the entire drive—when his phone, on the nightstand where he set it down, begins to buzz.
He freezes under my hands.
"Atlas—"
"Ignore it."
"It's—Atlas, it's Mom. I can see her name."
I look up at him from between his thighs.
He's gone fully red. His face is in the pillow. His hands are still under it. His phone keeps buzzing, brightly, on the nightstand. The screen lit with Mom and the picture of Margot from her wedding day he set for her contact card a year ago.
I sit back on my heels.
Slow. Deliberate. Hands sliding from his thighs to rest, light and harmless, on the back of his knees. I let out a long quiet breath like a man being reasonable. Like a man who has decided, regrettably, to let his omega answer his mother.
He sags into the duvet in relief.
"...thank you."
"Mm."
He fumbles for the phone. Gets it. Brings it to his ear.
"...Mom?"
"Sweetheart!" Margot. Bright. "Are you up? Did I wake you?"
"No—no, I'm—I'm up."
The second the word is out of his mouth, I lean down between his thighs and shove them wide again. He sucks in a sharp breath but I don’t slow. I drag my flat tongue from his perineum to his hole in one slow unbroken stroke.
He chokes on his next breath.
"—I'm fine," he says. Strangled. "What's up?"
I work my tongue against him in slow tight circles, tasting the slick of him, the salt-sweet heat, the way his rim flutters against my mouth every time I press in. He's already so wet for me I can feel it on my chin. I dip the point of my tongue inside him and his whole body jerks.
He bites the pillow. Hard. Through his teeth. His other hand comes up off the duvet, fists in his own hair, and pulls.
"Are you sure you're okay? You sound—"
"I'm fine. I'm—I had to run for the phone. Sorry. What's up, Mom?"
I push my tongue deeper. Fuck him slow with it.
Hands kneading the meat of his ass, holding him open for me, the bond between us pulsing so wide that every reaction his body has runs through me too—the clench of him around my tongue, the throb of his cock untouched against the duvet, the slick spreading down the inside of his thighs.
He gasps audibly into the phone. Clamps his free hand over his own mouth a second later.
Margot, oblivious: "I've been thinking about Wren. I know you’re with her right now but I got to thinking about Sunday dinner specifically. I want to do something special. Should I cook? Should I hire someone? I've been going back and forth—"
"Mom—"
"—because I want her to feel welcome but I don't want it to feel staged. Do you know what I mean? Do you think she'd be more comfortable with—"
I lift his hips off the bed and bring one hand around. Slide two fingers up the length of his cock, slow, gathering the precum smeared down it, and bring my hand back to push the tip of one slick finger inside him alongside my tongue.
The sound he makes into his hand is not a word.
"Max?"
"Yeah—yes, Mom—"
"Are you sure you're alright? You sound short of breath."
"I—Me and Wren were working out. I forgot to mention. Just got back from a run."
I almost laugh. I hum approval into him instead, mouth still working, finger curling, finding the spot inside him that makes him jerk. He shudders so violently the bed creaks.
"At eleven at night?"
"It's a thing—college thing—everybody's doing it—"
"Honey, are you sure—"
"I'm fine, Mom, I just—what about Wren—what about Sunday—"
I let him go for one beat—lift my head just enough to press my lips to his thigh and whisper good boy against the skin there, fingers still buried in him, curling.
He fully buries his face in the pillow at the words.
His hand at his mouth has gone white-knuckled.
His back is bowed. His cock is leaking onto the duvet under him, twitching every time my finger curls.
The bond between us is roaring, and I can feel exactly how close he is to coming untouched from a tongue and a phrase, and I am, for the first time since I took my coat off, in the unfamiliar position of actively not being in control of the room.
Christ, I love this.
I lower my mouth back down. Slide a second finger in beside the first.
Margot's talking about lasagna. Or roast. She's choosing between them in real time, as is her right as a hostess, and Max is making sounds of agreement against the pillow that I would, if I were Margot, find concerning.
He's been on the phone with his mother for somewhere between sixty and ninety seconds.
It feels like an hour. He hasn't yet figured out how to end it.
"I think roast," he gasps. "Roast is good. Roast is—Mom—"
"Roast it is."
"Great. Great. I have to—"
"I'll let you go, sweetheart. Go to bed. You sound exhausted."
"Yeah."
"I love you."
"Love you, Mom."
He gets the phone away from his ear.
He drops it.
He buries his face fully in the pillow with both arms over his head and lets out a sound that's half a sob and half a laugh and entirely furious. I crawl up his back, slow, dragging my mouth across his spine, and reach over him to pluck the phone off the bed.
I set it face-down back on the nightstand.
"Atlas," he says. Muffled. Wrecked. "Atlas, I am going to—I am going to kill you—"
"Mm. Where were we, sweetheart?"
He turns over under me, his face red, his mouth open, his eyes wet from holding it in. He looks at me from beneath me with a mix of murder and adoration that I'd put on my list of best things I've ever earned.
"You," he says, "are insane."
"Yes."
"I will never be able to speak to my mother again."
"You did beautifully."
"You are not—Atlas Graves, you are not laughing right now—"
I am, in fact, laughing.
Twice in one evening—I can't remember the last time. I bury my face in his neck and laugh, real, low, against the bite mark I set into weeks ago, and his hand comes up into my hair and fists in it, and I hear him laughing too, helpless, into the side of my head. We laugh together for a long time.
When I lift my head he's grinning. Full. Open. The careful nothing nowhere on his face.
"Now," he says. Soft. His hand at my jaw. "Where were we?"
I take him apart the way I promised.
His cock is flushed dark against his stomach, thick, leaking pearled precum down its own length. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet. His thighs fall open for me without asking.
I take a beat just to look at him. He twists his head against the pillow so he can see me.
Hair stuck damp to his forehead. Mouth bitten red. Bond mark at his throat blood-bright. His cock twitching every few seconds like his body can't tolerate not being touched.
"Atlas—"
"Shh. I know."
I crawl down between his thighs. Push them wider with my palms, slow, watching his face.
Press a kiss to the inside of one knee. Then lower.
The crease where his thigh meets his hip.
Then lower still. He's making small unconscious sounds, hips rolling off the duvet trying to find friction.
I pin his hips down firm with one forearm across his pelvis.
"Don't move."
"Atlas—"
"Don't. Move."
He goes still under my arm. Whimpering. Trembling. His cock leaking another fat bead of precum that slides down the underside.
I lean in and lick it off.
He sobs.
I drag my tongue up the underside of him from the base to the tip, slow, taking my time.
The taste of him goes through me. I close my lips just over the head of him and suck—gentle at first, almost lazy, my tongue working the slit, gathering the precum still beading there.
His thighs shake on either side of my head.
"Atlas, please—"
"Mm?"
"Please—I need—"
I pop my lips off the head of his perfect fucking cock to tease him. "Tell me what you need."
"Your mouth—"
"It's on you, sweetheart."
"Deeper—Atlas, please, deeper—"
I let him have it.
I take him deep in one slow controlled slide, all the way to the back of my throat, and his whole body bows up off the bed under my arm.
The sound he makes is wrecked. I hold him there for a beat—just a beat, long enough for him to feel it—and then I start to move.
Slow at first. Drag my mouth up the length of him, suck the head, sink back down.
Again.
Again.
Building him.
His hand finds my hair. Fists in it. Doesn't push, doesn't pull, just holds.
I pick up the pace. Hollow my cheeks. Take him deeper each time.
His belly is trembling under my forearm.
His other hand has fisted in the duvet. He's making a continuous broken sound, half whimper, half my name, syllables blurred together.
The bond between us is roaring—I can feel his pleasure as a second pulse in my chest, the building heat of it, the tightening at the base of his spine.
"Atlas—Atlas, I'm—I'm gonna—"
I take him deeper. Swallow around him on the next slide down.
He breaks.
His hand fists tight in my hair and he comes with my name on his tongue, hips fighting the arm pinning him, cock pulsing on my tongue and down my throat in long thick spurts.
I take all of it. Swallow every pulse. Keep my mouth on him soft and gentle as he shudders through the aftershocks, working him through it until he's twitching at the oversensitivity and trying weakly to push my head off.
I let him slide free of my mouth.
He's gasping. Wrecked. One arm flung over his eyes. His cock half-hard already against his belly, flushed pink, slick with my spit.
I crawl back up his body and press a kiss to his mouth—let him taste himself on my tongue—and he moans into it.