Worship #3
His hand came up. Two fingers traced the inside of my thigh. The lightness was deliberate. He was checking, making sure I hadn’t changed my mind in the half second since I had said the word.
I put one hand into his hair and pulled.
The sound that came out of him was rough and unsteady. Then he set his mouth at the inside of my knee and started working his way up.
He took his time.
The inside of my thigh, then higher, an inch at a time. Open mouth. Then teeth. Then the drag of stubble across skin. He breathed against me before each move, and the heat of his breath landed first, and then his mouth, so that every contact arrived twice.
His hand spread me open.
His mouth landed exactly where it was supposed to.
The sound I made wasn’t language.
He worked me with his tongue. Slow. Deliberate.
The flat of it first, broad and warm and unhurried.
Then the point. Then a tight circle drawn at a pressure I wouldn’t have known how to ask for.
He learned what I was doing under his mouth and adjusted.
Every adjustment was small. Every adjustment was correct.
The man who had spent two weeks reading my body across a corridor was reading it now from six inches away, his mouth on me, his tongue moving in patterns that responded to every shift of my breathing.
I was already so wet. Soaking. I had been like this since the dream. He hummed once, dragon-low, in the back of his throat, when he tasted exactly how wet I had already been for him, and the vibration moved up into me and pulled a sound out of my chest that I would’ve sworn wasn’t in my repertoire.
He hummed again. Deliberate.
His fingers came up.
One first. Slow. He pressed in to the second knuckle, paused, watched my face, pressed deeper.
He went all the way in. The stretch was real.
The slick was easy. I took him without resistance.
I whimpered, small and broken. He didn’t look away from me.
His eyes stayed slitted. His mouth hadn’t stopped working.
I clenched around his finger and felt him register it.
The smallest tightening of his jaw against me.
A second finger. He waited again, watching me, until my hips moved against his hand without my permission. Then he curled them.
The angle and pressure were exact. He had found whatever it was he had been looking for and committed it to memory.
His mouth set on my clit. His fingers fucked into me, curling at the angle he had found and never lost. The rhythm built and steadied and built again.
His free hand stayed flat against my thigh, holding me where he needed me, the pressure of his palm grounding me to the desk every time my body tried to move away from the intensity of it.
Then his free hand left my thigh.
It slid up under the hem of my sweater, slow, finding the line of my ribs first, then the curve of my breast through the thin fabric of my bra.
He pushed the bra up. His palm met bare skin.
His thumb rubbed across my nipple, slow, and the nipple beaded hard under the pressure.
Then he pinched. Light. Deliberate. Calibrated.
A different beat entirely from the rhythm of his mouth and his fingers, which didn’t pause for the new sensation arriving from above.
I gasped, nothing close to a word.
He kept it up. The rub became a roll. The roll became a longer pinch. His mouth on my clit, his fingers in me, his thumb and forefinger at my nipple. Three points of contact, all of them deliberate, all of them coordinated.
I knocked something off the desk. A folder. Papers fanned across the floor. Neither of us looked.
My hand was in his hair. Too tight. Any other time I would’ve apologized. He made a sound against me that suggested apology wasn’t required.
He stopped twice. Both times right at the edge. Both times he looked up at me from between my thighs without lifting his mouth all the way, and waited until I was breathing again, and went back to it.
The first time he stopped, I nearly sobbed.
The second time, I cursed at him in two languages.
He was making it last. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t move.
He kept his mouth where it was and his fingers exactly where they had been, his eyes on my face the entire time, and when my breathing came down he went back to it, and the wave that had been right at the edge climbed all the way up again.
The third time he didn’t stop.
He went harder. His fingers curled at exactly the angle he had found two minutes earlier and never lost. His tongue moved with the rhythm of his fingers, no longer slow, no longer asking.
The flat of his other hand pressed up against my lower belly, broad palm against the muscle there, and the pressure of it from outside met the pressure of his fingers from inside, and the wave that had been building behind my hips finally cleared the seawall.
I came on his tongue and his fingers with both hands in his hair and his name in my mouth, and I wasn’t quiet.
My thighs locked around his head before I could decide to let them.
He didn’t lift away. He let me hold him there.
My back arched off the desk. He kept his fingers curled and his mouth working and rode the wave with me through the first peak and into the second and into the third, every one of them a smaller, harder echo of the first. Only when the third one had rolled through and I was shaking against the desk and my hand had gone slack in his hair did he ease his fingers out and rest his forehead against the inside of my thigh and let me come down.
The room was very quiet. I could hear his breathing, mine, and the low hum of one of the dark monitors. Nothing else.
He didn’t stand. He didn’t reach for me. He asked for nothing.
For days, Dominic had been making himself useful and asking for nothing in return. No forgiveness. No comfort. No access I hadn’t given him.
He asked for nothing now.
I worked through that and felt my throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the orgasm. The man on his knees in front of me hadn’t asked for a single thing for himself.
His hands were on my thighs, holding me in place. His mouth pressed once, gently, at the inside of my knee. Then once at the other knee. Then he set his cheek against my leg and closed his eyes.
I let one breath out.
I touched his hair. Carefully now. The hand that had been pulling was unsteady.
I sat up a fraction. The sweater was still on me. My legs were bare from the hip down. The desk under me was warm where I had been.
He moved then. Only to free me. He lifted off my legs, set my feet down on the floor one at a time, found my underwear in the small ordered pile he had made and handed it to me without comment. He didn’t stand. He watched me the whole time.
I dressed in the dim light from the dark monitors. He watched me, still on his knees, and was simply there. The man had taken what I had given him and no more.
I looked at him, and he looked back.
Neither of us said anything. There was too much in the room for words to improve it.
I crossed to the door, opened it, and left without looking back.
The servants’ passage was colder on the way back. I climbed the access shaft, closed the panel behind me, and lay down on the bed in the dark.
Only then did the quiet catch up with me.
The bond ran warm and steady under my ribs, satisfied in a way it hadn’t been before.
I had made a choice.
Not the claim. That room, that desk, Dominic on his knees, my hand in his hair, and the warmth still in my body.