11. More, Please
MORE, PLEASE
Jonathan listened to him, a miracle that set off a buzz in Connor’s head as he watched Jonathan weave around the table and chairs to cross the kitchen.
His white shirt reached mid-thigh on Jonathan, and its tails fluttered with each step, revealing smooth and sleekly muscled legs.
His lips were rosy from last night’s attention, and his expression had the combination of intensity and annoyance that Connor had previously associated with television dukes, and now with hot sex and Jonathan.
Or more accurately, hot sex with Jonathan.
Connor assumed the small cowlick in the front where the sweep of dark hair parted to frame his face was a further entry on the list of irritations plaguing Jonathan, who had not hidden his need for more and better skin care products when he’d surveyed Connor’s bathroom counter.
All of this made Connor want him more.
He stopped an arm’s length away.
The silence stretched between them while Jonathan’s eyes narrowed and his lips drew inward, setting off a flare low in Connor’s belly.
There it was.
He needed that look, combined with the flush on Jonathan’s cheekbones and the shifting of the other man’s shoulders.
He needed to be the cause of it, so that he could also be the solution.
He reached out blindly for a drying towel and dropped it to the floor.
It wasn’t a pillow, but the thin cotton cloth would at least keep him from sticking to the tile.
Then he folded to his knees.
If only Jonathan had breeches and boots, this moment would be his purest fantasy, served like after-dinner port in a drawing room.
He wasn’t complaining about Jonathan’s bare legs in front of him, the shirt billowing around his chest and concealing his lean thighs, absolutely not complaining about this fuckdream, but removing boots and then peeling down tight breeches would be next level.
Even the current level, with Jonathan, all messy hair and disarray, standing over him, was going to give him a heart attack.
Connor ran his palms up the sides of Jonathan’s smooth calves and let his fingers curl around the backs.
The prickle of faint stubble hinted of hidden things that waited to be felt, but couldn’t be seen, and he wondered whether Jonathan shaved or waxed his legs.
His palms glided up and down, letting the texture be his map.
He could be Jonathan’s manservant, helping him step into a hot bath, then kneeling next to the side with a razor in his hand.
Jonathan threaded his fingers through Connor’s hair and tilted his head back. “Do we need to find a condom?”
“I don’t.” Connor couldn’t believe he hadn’t already collapsed from the sensation of Jonathan’s hands controlling his motions and directing where he looked. Or from the scent of last night’s sex and sweat that enveloped them, mixed with the vanilla and sizzling butter from cooking.
It didn’t feel like an exaggeration to say he was hungry for everything about this man, but also, he felt settled here at Jonathan’s feet. Some part of him believed the feeling would last, and he would finally have a person who wanted him for himself.
“Are you sure?” He pulled Connor’s hair to keep their gazes locked, and Connor knew he was tenting his shorts, but Jonathan hadn’t released him. “Be certain before we go further.”
He nodded, but Jonathan’s grip created a delicious tension when he tried to lower his chin.
More, please. “I’m certain.”
While Jonathan stared at him for another long moment, he didn’t let go of Connor’s head.
He knew he blushed, and he wanted to press his face into the top of Jonathan’s thigh, or whip the shirt fabric across his cheeks, but he couldn’t, not while Jonathan immobilized him.
His mouth was dry. He heard his own raspy breaths coming in and out and tried to wet his lips.
Jonathan’s eyes almost cut him with their glittery hardness. “I’m going to give you what you want, Connor. But you have to agree.”
“I do.” His voice sounded rusty.
“If you don’t want something, don’t do it. You’re bigger than me. You can do whatever you want, you don’t have to do what I say.”
He nodded.
“You understand? Say it. Say you’re bigger and you can stop anytime you want.”
“Yes. I’m bigger and I can”—his tongue felt too bulky for his mouth, so he swallowed—“I can stop anytime.” His shorts constricted his flexed thighs while he slid his hands higher on Jonathan’s legs, past the bony knee joints, along his tight lateral quad muscles, to the edge of the soft clinging briefs.
Through all of that, he didn’t look away from Jonathan, and Jonathan didn’t look away from him. “I want.”
Jonathan’s eyes drifted closed when his head tilted back, thrusting his hips closer. “I do, too.”
Connor couldn’t miss that Jonathan was already hard under his briefs, and he felt the answer under his own shorts, but for this moment he was here to serve. Jonathan wouldn’t laugh at him if he said that. “Tell me what to do.”
Jonathan’s lips curved but didn’t reveal his teeth. It was the look of a difficult man, and made Connor want to roll to his back and offer himself, but he stayed on his knees and waited.
“Remove my briefs.”
He lifted the shirt. It was his, of course. He recognized it, but its linen contours belonged to another time and place, a life of lawn parties and balls and beautiful men that were hidden and then revealed.
Behind that veil, he glimpsed Jonathan’s covered cock and a dark circle of wetness on his briefs and knew that Jonathan wanted this as much as he did. The knowledge made his fingers fumble at Jonathan’s waistband. His skin was hot and taut under Connor’s fingers when he paused to trace the band.
He wanted to watch as he pulled the briefs down, but Jonathan twitched the sides of the shirt over Connor’s forearms, blocking the view.
Without visual cues, he slowed his motions.
Lowered the briefs, down the firm thighs, past the dip above Jonathan’s knees, over the spheres of kneecap and bone, to Jonathan’s calves.
With grace and balance, Jonathan stepped out of the fabric.
Connor carefully folded them into a square and set them aside. He settled his hands on his own knees and waited, breathing deeply
So nice. So yummy. He could smell Jonathan’s musk mixed with the lingering citrus from yesterday and his own laundry soap.
“Touch my legs.”
He eased his hand under the shirt and trailed his fingers up Jonathan’s thigh, so warm and smooth where his muscles flexed and contracted, to the crease where his leg met his torso.
The groove there exerted a gravity-strength pull, and he traced its length again and again, each pass taking him closer to the patch of dark hair he could picture easily after their nights together.
Jonathan should order him to suck his cock. He needed direction, or else he was going to overstep his bounds, he was going to forget his place, he was going to get in trouble.
He eased his thumb close enough to nudge the base of Jonathan’s shaft.
“Stop.”
Connor froze, suspended between two needs.
“Did I tell you to touch me there?”
He shook his head, ashamed he’d presumed to touch his lordship without permission.
“Answer out loud.”
“Nooo.” Would Jonathan take his cock away? He would never. It would be wrong.
“Put your hands behind your back, Connor.”
The rush of blood to his cock told him that had been what he needed to hear.
He immediately linked his hands together at the small of his back, letting the backs of his fingers curl against the very top of his butt, and felt himself leaning forward slightly.
Closer to the goal, his lips parted and his tongue pushed at his own teeth.
“Wider.”
He let his jaw drop and looked up at Jonathan’s face, so far away from him, so much pristine shirt and stern frown above Connor.
“I’m going to fuck your mouth.” Jonathan slipped a button free. His voice was sharp and each word sounded deliberate. “Your big happy smile.”
And another button.
Then the third separated from its hole, and the sides of the shirt parted to allow Connor to gaze at the fully revealed lines of the man who stood above him. Taut, slender, with leashed energy packed under his skin and his entire being, like his cock, focused on Connor at his feet.
“I’m going to fuck that big happy smile and you’re going to like it.”
In front of Connor’s face, Jonathan wrapped his graceful fingers around his cock. It was hard, reddened, waiting to enter his mouth, and he could see a drop of precum where the foreskin pulled back from his slit. Connor could die here with a big happy smile.
“If it’s too much, use your hands to stop me, you understand?”
It would be just right, but he nodded and dropped his jaw. Jonathan wanted him to open.
The feel of the head filling his mouth was dry and hot, almost choking him, until his saliva flooded and bathed Jonathan’s length to ease the motions. He closed his eyes to savor what Jonathan was giving him with each stroke, and realized Jonathan had already washed himself.
He must have wet a cloth, run it around his cock, stroked himself, maybe even in front of Connor’s mirror, while he was alone.
Connor leaned forward and loosened his jaw to take more.
He felt sticky and stale, like he’d arrived directly from the stables to serve his bright shining lordship, the man who could afford to wear gleaming white shirts and who had absolute power over his groom, who was always sweaty, always on his knees.
He couldn’t lick him clean, because he was clean. He could only be a convenient place to stick a cock.
That was the service his lordship required.
The cuffs fluttered against his temples, smooth and cool, while Jonathan forced his head to move at his will. Each of Jonathan’s fingers locked him in place on his knees, sometimes pulling him closer, sometimes clenching tighter and digging crescents of fingernails into the scalp behind his ears.
Jonathan did everything. Connor’s only tasks were to balance on his knees, and to keep his mouth and throat open for Jonathan’s thrusts.