Chapter 5 #2
He watched me for a second, almost as if he might call me on my bullshit. Then he nodded, his smile faint. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“Good.” I drained the rest of my sparkling water while he rose to box up the rest of his pasta for tomorrow. By the time he disappeared into his bedroom, he was humming under his breath, and I sat alone with the lingering warmth of Matt’s weight pressing me down, the heavy intensity of his focus.
Sunday. Five days.
Casual. Easy. Something that made sense for him and worked for me—complicated lives, simple attraction, no need to turn it into anything bigger.
A day and a time. No big deal at all.
“Congrats,” I said, “on the win.”
“Thanks.” Matt flashed me a smile that was bigger than his usual one, bright even a day after the Seattle Cascades had kicked the season off with a statement. Relief cut through his usual composure. “You watch it?”
“Just bits.” Behind me, the elevator closed. “Was out with some friends. They showed it at the pub.”
It was a familiar place that always ran sports on mute above the bar, only I’d never once followed a game beyond the score in the corner.
Last night, though, my focus had snagged every time Matt had hit the ice.
I knew the line of his shoulders now, knew that body, and watching it turn into a weapon had felt like a dangerous thrill.
“You should come to a game sometime.” The words seemed unplanned, his brows knitting together immediately after. “I mean, generally speaking. You don’t have to. I don’t care.”
Right, of course.
“Don’t get your tongue in a knot,” I said, shrugging out of my coat. “I know how you meant it.”
“Yeah, no. Good.” He nodded as if to himself. In light-blue jeans and a black zip-up that hugged his body, hair still drying and face scrubbed clean, he looked like he’d only just come out of the shower. Faint tiredness sat around his eyes and did nothing to dull him.
Fresh off my shift, in dark dress pants and a soft sage shirt, the contrast between us felt stark—the athlete millionaire who didn’t have to try, and me, who very much did.
I took two steps closer and caught a hint of cologne and soap, tight-banked energy in how he held himself. His gaze narrowed in on me, dark and focused, and God, I liked that—the full weight of his attention, almost physical in its immediacy. Sexy. Fucking addictive.
“So,” I said, “about that win. The city’s grateful, obviously. I was thinking I should deliver the message by getting on my knees.”
He took a small, sharp breath. “That so?”
“Yeah.” Just that. Then I crowded him back against the entry wall, let my coat crumple on the stone tiles, and dropped to one knee with the other foot braced.
“Jesus, Stellan.” A low murmur that carried surprise and heat, no hesitation.
His hand landed in my hair right as I reached for his jeans.
I popped the button and unzipped them, shoved them down to his thighs along with his underwear, my heartbeat stuttering fast at the way his hips tilted forward.
Half-hard already, and I hadn’t even started.
One slow, tight stroke got him nearly there.
His head knocked back against the wall, eyes on me, half-lidded. His voice came out low, a request disguised as an order. “Get on with it, then.”
I dragged my lips over him once, just enough to make his hand tighten in my hair, then leaned back a little. “Ask me nicely.”
A tiny smile pulled at his mouth. “I thought you were about to reward me?”
“Guess that’s true.” I inhaled and caught the musky hint of his arousal. Then I took him in, and the sound he made—Christ. A rough, half-swallowed groan that caught on the way out like he’d tried to keep it in and lost the fight.
Yes.
Another pass of my mouth, my hand tight around the base.
He was fully hard now, his hips shifting, thighs tense as he held himself in check, all nice and polite.
Good man. Except… Fuck. Except I wanted messy and a little desperate, wanted to see his body that was built for speed and control tip into pure human need.
I drew back just enough to look up at him. “Matt.”
“Shit, sorry.” His hand in my hair loosened instantly. “Too much? I didn’t mean—”
“You’re holding back like I’ll bolt.” I gave him a small squeeze, voice low, grinning when he twitched into my touch like he couldn’t help it. “News flash: I actually enjoy this.”
His eyes went wide—surprise, maybe, or something warmer that I couldn’t place. “Okay,” he said, low.
“Good.” I shifted closer on one knee, my thumb dragging along the length of him. “So you can be a little assertive. That’s okay.”
I didn’t give him time to respond, just leaned right back in and took him down again.
Slower this time, focused on the stretch, the weight, the taste of skin and salt and a sharper edge of want.
Good, fuck. My hand tight around the base to cover what my mouth couldn’t.
I liked this, yeah, but there were limits.
He caught on fast.
A faint roll of his hips, barely there, testing.
Watching me with eyes gone even darker, hand still buried in my hair but not pushing, just his fingers spreading and flexing like he needed to touch something, touch me.
His other hand settled on my face, thumb dragging along my cheekbone, and that…
It pinged somewhere deep—the idea that he was handling this as if it were precious, me on my knees in his entryway, his cock in my mouth and our clothes still mostly on. Something he’d remember, revisit.
He shifted again, just a little bolder, not a full thrust so much as the suggestion of it. I took him deeper, and he hissed a breath through his teeth, head knocking back against the wall, mouth open. Color rose under his skin.
Fuck, I liked him like this. Liked the way he looked, the way he responded to me.
Sure, yeah, from a distance, maybe the roles seemed obvious—him towering over me, my mouth around him.
But it didn’t feel that way. Because I could make him lose his breath, his control fraying into something thin and slippery as his hips gave another twitch, a hint more intent behind it now.
His fingers tightened briefly at the back of my head, then eased. Still holding back, just a little.
I pulled off him with a wet drag of my mouth, tonguing at the tip while I worked my hand up and down. He made a rough noise.
“Good?” I asked, glancing up.
“Fuck, yeah.” The smallest curve at the corner of his mouth. “Not, like, grading here. But—God, Stellan. Really fucking good.”
“And they say I’m the charmer.”
He laughed, soft and wrecked, gaze on me as if everything else had fallen away.
I took him back down before he could remember, deep enough to make a curse catch at the back of his throat.
Something in him tugged loose—hips moving with urgency now, not rough or careless, but small thrusts that got bolder, control crumbling by the second.
That’s it.
He was flushed now, lips parted, chest rising fast under the black zip-up he hadn’t bothered taking off. One hand carding through my hair, the other tracing the line of my jaw. It sent a weird, bright flash of heat through me, and I palmed myself through my pants.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “Stellan, that’s—”
He didn’t finish, words trailing off into a groan when I flattened my tongue against him, hollowed my cheeks. His hips jerked harder this time, and yeah, yes, come on.
“Close?” I murmured, more vibration than question.
His eyes stayed on me with a heavy, dazed focus. “Yeah.”
“Go for it.” I slid my free hand up to steady his hip and took him deeper. His fingers clenched in my hair, just enough to sting a little, and fuck, good.
He broke with a small, helpless noise, his whole body drawing tight like the string of a bow as he shook through it.
I swallowed, less because it felt polite and more because of the way he watched me, almost awed, no trace left of the aloof demigod who stared from posters.
Briny and faintly bitter, thick on my tongue.
Not my favorite taste, but intimate, messy and human in a way that made my stomach pull tight.
When I eased back slightly, he folded in half, arms around my back to drag me upright. I stumbled to my feet and caught myself with a palm against his chest.
“Jesus,” he muttered, breathing hard. “That was… Fuck, Stellan.”
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and let a smile break through. “That good, huh?”
“Yes,” he said, quick and raw, and I huffed out a laugh.
“Thought you didn’t want me fishing for praise?”
“No, that’s okay. You’ve fucking earned it.” He was already fumbling with my belt, fingers clumsy in a way that didn’t suit him, jeans around his ankles, eyes a little glassy. Not untouchable. I covered his wrist.
“You don’t have to.”
“Shut up.” He scoffed, then kissed me as if to make a point. “I’m not an asshole.”
“Never said you were.”
He got my belt open and cupped me through my pants, which, God. “You weren’t lying,” he said, voice a little rough, still breathless around the edges. “You do enjoy this.”
“It’s hot,” I said. “Watching you.”
Something washed across his face. “I want to try that.”
Fuck. Even just the thought of it had me blinking through a hot spark of arousal. “You don’t—”
“Don’t have to,” he cut in. “I know. I want to. Maybe next time?”
Next time. I inhaled. “Sure.”
Then his hand slipped into my pants and that—yes, please, but also, fuck. Work clothes. I twitched back on instinct, and his focus snapped up.
“This is one of my work outfits. I don’t have that many.” Six, to be precise, which I mixed and matched. I wasn’t short on clothes in general, not anymore, but work was different. There, I had to look like I’d stepped off our own racks. “I just got it dry cleaned.”
His focus stayed on my face for a long moment. It wasn’t pity, thank God, more like recognition, maybe, a little click of understanding as if he’d grown up with constraints, too. Then he nudged me back by half a step. “Get naked, then.”
Heat sloshed down my spine. “You too.”