4. Jules #2
Connor’s hand stilled in his hair but didn’t stop him.
Jules worked the buckle, pulled the leather free, and undid the button with fingers that were remarkably steady considering his heartbeat was doing double time.
The zipper came down allowing Jules to hook his fingers into the waistband and pulled the slacks and boxers down together.
He’d imagined this too. Of course he had. He’d imagined it in the shower, in his bed at 2 a.m., in the middle of Connor’s lecture while dozens of other students took notes around him. His imagination had been generous in the fantasy.
Reality proved his imagination had been underselling it.
Connor was hard, the denial of attraction no longer a claim he could reasonably make. The thick, long cock taunted him. Jules couldn’t decide where he wanted to taste first. He wrapped his hand around the base and felt Connor’s thigh tighten beneath his other hand.
“Jules.” His name in Connor’s mouth was a warning and a prayer stitched together.
Jules took him in, noting how debauched the man already was. They’d only just gotten started. With his eyes on Connor’s face, he’d be able to watch every crack form in that composure. Jules wanted to be the reason the carefully constructed architecture of Connor Thorne came undone.
At the first swipe of Jules’s tongue, Connor’s head tipped back as he groaned loudly.
His hand fisted in Jules’s hair, treating him like an anchor.
His hips jerked once before he caught himself.
Jules felt the effort it took for Connor to hold still.
Every muscle in his thighs was locked, trembling with the force of restraint.
Jules pulled back enough to breathe. “You don’t have to hold back.”
“If I don’t hold back, this won’t last.”
“Good.” Jules ran his tongue along the length of him, making sure to keep eye contact as he did. “That means I’m doing my job. I want you to feed me your cum. Every. Last. Drop.”
Connor swore under his breath. The rawness of it gave Jules a deep sense of satisfaction.
He took Connor deep again, setting a rhythm designed to destroy any remaining calm the man might have had.
His hand worked in tandem with his mouth, moving slow then fast, the pace building and building as Jules read Connor’s body like he was studying for his doctorate.
Every shift of his hips, every tightened grip, every bitten-off sound was supported Jules’s efforts to bring Connor Thorne to his proverbial knees.
Connor’s hand moved from Jules’s hair to his jaw. He held him there, as if he needed to feel the movement of Jules’s jaw under his fingers. The intimacy of the gesture cracked Jules’s chest wide open.
This wasn’t just physical. Not for either of them. Connor could call it an experiment or a lapse in judgment or whatever term let him sleep at night, but the way his hand trembled against Jules’s face told a different story.
“Stop,” Connor rasped moments later.
Jules pulled away, albeit reluctantly. He looked up to Connor, confused as to why the other man had asked him to stop.
Connor’s breathing was ragged. His eyes were nearly black. He stared down at Jules with an unreadable expression.
“Get up.”
Jules rose at the command, but before he could find his footing, Connor’s mouth was on his. The kiss was different from the office. He devoured Jules, lapping at his mouth, tasting and teasing with fervor. His hands were everywhere. Jules’s jaw, his neck, his chest, pulling at the hem of his shirt.
Jules broke away long enough to pull the shirt over his head. Connor’s hands found bare skin and the sound he made against Jules’s throat was utterly possessive.
“Bedroom?” Jules asked, careful to word it like a question since he wasn’t running the show.
Connor breathed against him, reluctant to pull back to answer the question. “Down the hall. Last door.”
Jules turned and walked without another word. He was shirtless, his skin prickling in the cooler air of the hallway. Hyperaware of Connor behind him, he fought against running to his destination.
Don’t look too eager. Don’t give him cause to stop.
Jules was nearly to the door when Connor’s hand closed around his arm and spun him.
Jules’s back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, and then Connor was there, pressing the full length of his body against Jules’s, pinning him flat.
One hand braced against the wall beside Jules’s head.
The other found Jules’s jaw and held it firm, tilting his face upward.
Jules could feel all of him. Every hard line, every degree of heat, the unmistakable press of Connor’s erection against his hip where he’d left his cock loose.
“If we go through that door,” Connor said, his voice stripped raw, “this isn’t something I can undo. I won’t pretend it didn’t happen. I won’t let you pretend either.” His thumb pressed into the hinge of Jules’s jaw. “Do you understand what you’re walking into? This will be my last time asking.”
Jules was pinned, breathless. The hold was hard enough to ache. He could feel Connor’s pulse hammering where their chests were flush. Could feel the need pouring off the other man in waves.
This wasn’t a warning. It was a confession. Connor was telling him that whatever happened in that bedroom wouldn’t be something to walk away from after. He was telling Jules that this would wreck him, and he needed Jules to understand he’d be part of the aftermath.
“Yes, Connor. I understand and I’m not scared. Take me to bed. Claim me. Fuck me.”
Keep me, his heart cried out.
Connor kissed Jules again, allowing his hips to roll forward, showing just how hard he still was.
Jules gasped into his mouth, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Connor’s back, pulling the henley up to get to skin.
Connor was burning underneath it. Solid and hot and real.
It obliterated every fantasy Jules had constructed over years of wanting.
Connor pulled back. His forehead dropped against Jules’s. They breathed together for a single, suspended moment. Then he took Jules’s hand and led him the last few steps to his space.
The bedroom door closed behind them. Whatever line Connor Thorne had drawn for himself, he’d just crossed it with both feet.
No going back now.
For either of them.