9. Wren
Wren
“We could—“ Soren starts, then stops. His eyes flick to the bed.
I wait. My thumb traces his cheekbone, and the flush spreads down his neck.
“We could move,” he finishes, quieter. “If you want.”
If I want. Like there’s any world where I wouldn’t take whatever he’s offering.
I stand and haul him up. He’s lighter than I thought, or maybe I’m just running on pure adrenaline at this point.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and he stands between my knees, looking down at me. His fingers thread into my hair, tentative at first, then steadier when I lean into the touch.
“This is the part where I tell you my bed is kind of a mess. Sorry about the...” He gestures vaguely at the blanket pile. “I know it’s a lot. It’s not usually this bad, but Milo’s nest at Callum’s is basically architectural, so I have this complex about—“
“Soren.”
He stops talking.
“It’s perfect.” I mean the nest, the room, him—everything. But I’m not about to say all that out loud, so I just pull him down onto the bed with me.
He goes easy, lands on his back, hair all over the pillow. I end up over him, braced on one arm, and for a second I just stare. The afternoon light hits the ink stain on his finger, the shadows under his eyes, his mouth already open for me.
I kiss him. Slower than on the floor, slower than in the hallway. I take my time with his bottom lip, then the top, then the corner of his mouth where his smile starts. His hands slide up my arms and grip my shoulders, and his whole body arches into.
My mouth moves to his jaw. The hinge of it, where bone meets soft skin. He tilts his head and gives me his throat, offers it up, no hesitation, and I have to close my eyes for a second.
I kiss down his neck, right over the spot where his pulse is going wild under my mouth. My teeth ache. Every part of me wants to bite, mark him up, claim him right now. But I hold back. Not yet. Not until he asks for it, really asks, when he’s clear-headed and not running on adrenaline.
I drag my mouth lower. Collarbone. The hollow of his throat. He makes a sound that’s half sigh, half whimper, and his fingers tighten in my hair.
“Wren—“
“I’m here.” My hand finds the hem of his T-shirt, and I flatten my palm against his stomach. Warm skin, the faint trail of hair below his navel. His muscles jump under my touch. “Can I take this off?”
“Yeah. Yes. Please.”
I push his shirt up slow. He lifts his arms, I yank it over his head, and then he’s bare from the waist up. My brain just blanks out for a second. He’s lean, soft lines, warm brown skin, and there’s this tiny mole by his left hip that I have to get my mouth on.
So I do. I bend and press my lips to it, and Soren makes a sound like the air got punched out of him.
“You’re...” He swallows. “You’re very thorough.”
“Mm.” I kiss the spot again, then the one above it, then the curve of his ribs. I work my way across his chest, slow, figuring out every spot that makes him twitch. His nipple goes tight when I breathe on it, so I circle it with my tongue, just testing. His back arches off the bed.
“Oh. Okay. That’s—yeah.”
I do it again, slower, and his hand fists in my hair hard enough to sting. Good. I want every sound, every flinch, every place that makes him shake. I want the full map.
I keep going down. His stomach, the soft skin below his navel, the waistband of his joggers. His hips roll before he can stop them, and I can smell his slick now, sweet and sharp, cutting through everything else in the room.
“I want to taste you,” I say against his hip. My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to. “Can I?”
His breathing is ragged. “You don’t have to—“
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looks down at me, eyes huge and blown, lip caught between his teeth. “Yes,” he whispers. “God, yes.”
I hook my fingers into his waistband, joggers and underwear together, and pull them down. Slow. He lifts his hips to help, and then he’s bare, and I’m between his thighs, and I take a second to look.
His cock is hard against his stomach, flushed dark and leaking from the tip, precum trailing down to his navel.
His thighs fall open, slick glistening on the insides, catching the afternoon light.
Lower, his hole is wet and swollen, clenching on nothing, and the sight stops me cold.
This is mine. He’s letting me see this. Letting me have this.
Every possessive thing in me goes still and certain.
He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve spent four years looking at wood grain and thinking that was art.
He shifts, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry, I’m—it’s a lot, I know—“
“Don’t.” I press my palm flat against his inner thigh, holding him open. My thumb slides through the slick gathered there, warm, almost hot, slippery between my fingers. “Don’t you dare apologize for this.”
I lean down and kiss the inside of his knee instead of saying anything else.
He shivers. I kiss higher. The tender skin of his inner thigh, where the muscle goes soft. He’s trembling under my hands. I kiss the crease where his thigh meets his hip, and he makes a sound that goes straight to my cock, this broken little ah that he tries to muffle with his hand.
I reach up and pull his hand away from his mouth. “I want to hear you.”
His fingers lace through mine and squeeze. His eyes look wet.
I go down on his balls, drag my tongue over them, light and flat, and his hips jerk. I keep him steady with one hand on his hip, thumb rubbing circles into the bone, and I take my time until his thighs are shaking. Then I move lower.
I press my thumbs into the creases of his thighs and spread him open, settling between his legs so my breath ghosts over his hole. He whimpers at just that, just the warm air, and his hole clenches, a fresh bead of slick sliding down.
My first drag of tongue is slow and deliberate, flat, wide, from his taint all the way up across his rim. He’s hot against my tongue, silky and swollen, and the taste floods my mouth. Sweet and salt and something underneath that’s just Soren, rich and good and mine.
He cries out. Not even a word, just pure sound, so honest it makes my hands shake. His hips buck hard, his thighs clamp around my head, and I have to hold him down with both hands.
I lick into him slow. Long strokes, letting slick smear across my mouth and chin.
Then the tip of my tongue, circling his rim, pressing in where he’s hot and tight and his body just opens for me like it was waiting.
His hand finds my hair and pulls, hard, and I groan against him because my brain has left the building.
The vibration makes his thighs clamp tighter.
“Wren, oh my god—“
I seal my mouth over his hole and suck, and every part of me is just chanting mine, mine, mine on repeat. I’d be embarrassed if I could think straight. His slick is all over my chin and jaw. The wet sounds between us are filthy and just make me want more.
His purring starts. Low in his chest, a deep rumble against my lips and through my knuckles where they press into his thighs. That sound sinks into my bones. This is Soren feeling safe.
I pull back and press one finger against his hole, rubbing slick around the rim in slow circles. His hole pulses under the pad of my finger, trying to pull me inside, heat radiating off him.
“Please,” he gasps, hips rocking in tiny helpless movements. “Please, I need—Wren, please.”
“I know.” I watch his face and push one finger in. Slow. His rim stretches, a brief clench of resistance, and then his body takes me, hot and silky and tight. I slide in deeper and stop. His mouth falls open, chest heaving, and his pulse is right there, hammering against my finger.
“Okay?” I murmur.
“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
I curl it, searching, and when I find the soft swell of his prostate, his whole spine locks.
“There, there, right there—“
His voice cracks at the end. I work that spot slow, watching his cock jump every time I press in. He’s so wet around me, slick squelching with every thrust, dripping down my knuckle. I bring my mouth back to his rim, licking around my own finger, tasting him and the heat of his body all at once.
He can take more. His body is pulling me in, his hole loose and hungry around my finger.
I pull back, press two fingers to his rim, and push in.
There’s more resistance, a stretch that makes him gasp and grab the blanket.
I go slow, let him open up, and when he pushes down and takes both fingers to the knuckle, the sound he makes is filthy.
“Good.” My voice is wrecked. “Look at you. Look at you take that.”
I scissor my fingers, stretching him while my tongue works his rim. Slick is all over my chin, dripping down my wrist, soaking the blanket under him. The wet, filthy sounds should embarrass me, but they just make me want more.
I pull my fingers out just long enough to suck them clean, tasting him thick on my tongue. His eyes go huge watching me.
“Jesus, Wren—“
“You taste incredible.” I push them back in and press harder against that spot. “I could do this for hours. That a problem?”
He laughs. It turns into a moan halfway through, which might be my new favorite sound in the world. “Not—ah—not a problem. Definitely not a—oh fuck—“
I seal my mouth over his hole and suck around my fingers, crooking them on every pass, and his whole body shudders. His purring fractures into desperate little sounds.
His hand fists tighter in my hair, hips stuttering.
“Wren, I’m going to—I’m close, I—“
His other hand finds my jaw. Tilts my face up. His eyes are wet, chest heaving, and the way he’s looking at me right now isn’t about what I’m doing with my fingers. It’s about me.
“Yeah.” My voice barely works. I crook my fingers harder, press my tongue flat and firm against his rim. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Go.