22. Chapter 22 #2
"I want to," he growls, taking me deeper in his throat, his tongue massaging against the underside of my shaft. His hands grip the backs of my thighs with bruising force and drag me forward until his nose is buried in my pelvis and I’m fucking his throat deep and unrelenting.
I bite down on the knuckles of my fist to suppress what would surely be an embarrassingly loud moan as he gags on my length.
His mouth pulls back until just the tip is being sucked by his swollen lips, rubbing against the head.
And fuck, I’m trying so hard not to prematurely blow in his mouth.
There’s no coming back from that. If I was being honest with myself, there was never any going back anyway, not since the first day I laid eyes on Rylen James Wilson.
His lips seal around me with building force, dragging me deeper into the tight heat of his throat.
Every movement feels like hatred and need twisted into one.
I clutch the edge of the counter until my knuckles blanche and begin to ache, torn between the guilt churning in my gut and the sharp pleasure flooding through me.
There’s nothing in the air now aside from the slick rhythm of his tongue stroking my thick shaft, teasing the head before swallowing me down hard.
When he pulls back, lips flushed and swollen, I bite down a curse.
My hips want to thrust, to give in, but my chest is tight with panic.
Because this is Rylen . Is he just going to ghost me again if I let him do this?
Our eyes connect, saying more than words ever could.
Then he does something that makes a low growl rise in my chest—his tongue glides over the tip of my cock, pushing his tongue to the seam and lapping up a bead of pre-cum.
“I’ve always wanted to know what you taste like,” he hums, eyes rolling back as he hums in satisfaction. It sends a wave of fire burning down my entire body.
“Ffffucking hell, love,” I moan, tangling my fingers in his dark hair, my brows pulling tight as my eyes drift shut.
His hand wraps around my cock, moving over me with a slick, urgent rhythm.
My hips buck and grind into his fist, setting a pace that has my knees trembling.
The cold metal of the sink behind me bites into the skin of my elbows the more my weight shifts, fighting to keep me upright.
“Louder,” he coaxes, working me faster in his tight grip. Every stroke drives me closer to losing control. “I want the whole fucking neighbourhood to know who makes you feel this good.”
My eyes spring open, gaze falling to him in absolute disbelief.
Rylen is looking back at me with a shit-eating grin that soon flickers away into lust. His eyelids faltering, lips parted, one hand around my cock, and with the other he strokes himself in time with my hips.
Every movement matches mine. And the sight of him, lost in the same desperate rhythm, has a growl tearing out of my chest. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I can’t think anymore, can’t stop the moans that spill from me as my body shudders. The tightness in my gut twists and coils, ready to unravel, every nerve screaming as his hand pushes me closer to the brink.
“Fuck, Ry—I’m gonna cum—” I choke out, heat coiling low in my gut. He smirks. “Be a good boy Maddox—cum for me and I’ll swallow it, every drop.”
My fist knots tighter in his hair, dragging him closer until his mouth is stuffed full of my cock once more.
His answering moan vibrates up my spine and it’s enough to make spots explode behind my eyes as I spill down his throat.
His mouth glides over me deliberately slowly, cleaning the mess, and I can’t stop the whimper that escapes my lips.
Every movement of his tongue drags a shiver through me, and I find myself releasing his hair, letting him claim this small, intimate act.
I watch him swallow every last drop, just like he promised.
When he finally pulls back, lips glistening, I catch the sight of him; cheeks flushed, hazel eyes swallowed by darkness, and I can’t look away. There’s a heat in my chest, a sharp, tight ache that’s equal parts possession and satisfaction.
“Fuck,” he exhales slowly, dragging a thumb across his lips. “I’d gladly drink poison if it tasted like you.”
Jesus Christ. How did we go from fighting over a shirt, to this…
Before I can even process an answer, Rylen’s rising to his feet, and striding out of the room.
Gremlin jumps down from her spot on the couch with a small trill and sprints to catch up to him, fluffy tail waving high above her tiny frame.
He doesn’t spare me another glance as they enter his bedroom and as the door closes behind them.
An icy chill runs down my spine, while heat prickles my nose as I fight back an overwhelming surge of emotion at his abrupt exit.
I roughly tuck myself back into my jeans, cheeks burning with embarrassment and I let my body slowly slump to the dark wooden floor.
I can feel the cold seeping through the thin fabric of my clothes, but I don’t even care. It’s what I deserve.
It was happening again, and the worst part is that I knew this would happen. I knew and I still fucking did it. Things are falling apart before my eyes and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
I’ve lived this way before, whenever things got too much and Rylen had to retreat into himself for a few weeks on end. So in reality it’s nothing I can’t handle. But fuck, I don’t want to handle it anymore.
I don’t want to do this again, not now, not after this.
I hate myself for letting him use me then throw me away.
I’m so fucking sick of it. And I’m tired, so god damn tired, of this deep rooted ache in my chest. It’s weaving its way into my muscles, like a poison spreading through my blood stream.
I hate him. I hate this. I hate… me .Why did I have to go and let myself believe that this could be the one time that everything comes together and nothing could hurt me anymore?
The tension in my shoulders is coiled so tightly I could swear a hand was gripping the back of my neck, I try to roll my joints but the knot only deepens. My eyes fall shut and I press my palms against the sockets, counting as I focus on my breath work.
In for one, out for two. Again and again.But it’s not working.
The irritation squirms under my skin like bugs until even being in my own body is too much to handle.
Why can’t humans just unzip our flesh like a suit when it gets too heavy?
I just… I don’t want life to be this fucking hard anymore.
The silence in the kitchen is deafening, heavy with the phantom taste of him and the crushing weight of my own stupidity.
I’m still on the floor, my back against the cabinets, feeling the literal cold of the wood seeping through my jeans. I’ve never felt more like a disaster than I do right now. And I let him do that—I let him take that from me—and then I let him walk away.
I’m halfway through a count of four-in, four-out when the door to the bedroom clicks open again.
I don't look up. I can't. I just stare at the grain of the floorboards and wait for him to tell me he’s going for a run or that he needs to check on something at the club. Anything to get away from the mess he just made of me. Instead, a pair of bare feet stop right in front of my crossed legs.
“Mads?” he asks cautiously. I don't answer, I just squeeze my eyes shut tighter, my palms still pressed into my sockets until I see stars. “Hey, look at me. What's wrong?” A hand—warm, solid, and real—reaches down and gently pries my wrists away from my face.
Rylen is crouching in front of me. The harrowed, panicked look is gone, replaced by something steady that I’m not used to seeing. He’s holding a clean, soft cotton shirt—a heavy-weight oversized black one that I know is his absolute favorite.
He doesn't say a word about the mess on the floor or the way my face is probably blotched with heat and shame. He simply shakes the shirt out and holds it open.
"C'mon. Arms up," he orders softly. I obey like a kid, my movements stiff and jerky. I’m so embarrassed I can feel the prickle of tears starting again, but Rylen ignores it and pulls the fabric over my head with a slow, careful kind of tenderness.
He smooths the hem down over my hips, his fingers lingering on my skin for a second longer than necessary.
Once the shirt is on, he doesn't stand up. He stays right there in my space, his hazel eyes searching mine until I’m forced to really look at him.
I can tell he sees the spiral; sees exactly where my head just went.
He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray tear on my cheek, before he leans in.
He doesn't go for a deep, soul-shattering kiss this time.
He just presses a soft, lingering kiss to the very tip of my nose.
"I wasn't running," he whispers against my skin, his breath warm and smelling of the coffee and saltiness. "I just went to get you something better to wear."
The knot in my chest disintegrates. I feel like an absolute idiot for doubting him so fast, but for the first time in thirteen years, the apology isn't a spoken word, it’s the way he’s looking at me.
"Oh," I rasp, the word tiny and pathetic.
"Silly goose. I told you, I'm not going anywhere this time.
" Rylen huffs a small, genuine smile and rests his forehead against mine, his thumbs still tracing the line of my jaw.
" Let's just take this slow, okay? It's still a huge adjustment, and I don't want to lose—this—" he says, gesturing vaguely between us with a flick of his hand, "—just because we now do this—"
He punctuates the point by leaning in, and pressing his mouth to mine in a kiss that feels like a promise.
"Slow is good," I agree, catching his lips again before he can pull away. I could never get sick of this. I want to breathe the feeling in and get high off it like a drug, let it replace every bad memory still rattling around in my skull.
"Good. Now, I’m making breakfast. And you're helping," Rylen smiles, finally standing up and holding out a hand to haul me off the floor.