8. Ryan
Ryan
The question hangs there for only a moment, heavy and dangerous, before he says, “I think you want me to.”
And I do.
I do, but I also want to unravel my nerves, or run, or scream, or do literally anything except admit how much I want to feel his hands on my skin, pressing me down, making me feel something real for once.
So instead of answering, I rest my hands on my knees, then dig my nails into my thighs.
“What if I said yes?” I ask.
Camille stands, just enough to close the distance between us, and one of his hands cups my jaw, thumb stroking along the edge of my cheekbone. He does not move in quickly. If anything, he slows down time, letting me see all the ways I could flinch away, all the ways I could stop him.
I don’t.
He doesn’t actually kiss me, though. His lips hover, nearly touching mine, and my breath hitches. The only thing I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears, and the quiet click of the espresso machine cooling down.
I wait for Camille to make the move, to commit, to break the tension that’s been thickening all evening.
But he just breathes me in, eyes half-lidded, holding me in the gravity of his touch.
My hands are sweating, and my thighs are rigid against the edge of the cushion.
I know what will happen if I let this go forward.
The ache in my chest is matched only by the low burn in my body, a want so pressing it’s almost painful.
But my brain, that goddamn sparking live wire, can’t just let it be simple.
I turn my head, only slightly, enough that his lips find my cheek instead, skimming down to my jaw. He lets them linger there, warm and teasing, and I almost whimper from the anticipation. I feel him smile against my skin, and I want to curse him for it.
“I’m leaving here as soon as I can. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want any feelings involved.”
Camille’s lips hover by my ear. “That is not what I am asking of you,” he says, and the way his words curl around me makes my whole body shiver.
“Good. Because I definitely don’t want to talk about feelings,” I manage, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel.
He hums, deep in his chest. “No feelings. Only what you want.”
What I want is his mouth, his hands, his weight, and his majestic fucking cock, and I don’t care if that makes me a cliché. I want to feel reckless, wanted, and real. So I blurt, “We can hook up. Just—sex friends, or whatever. If you’re into that.”
Camille sits back on his heels, considering me with a seriousness that makes me squirm. For a second, I think he’s going to push, insist, or make fun of me. But then he only nods, and his eyes are all steel and hunger.
“I agree to your terms,” he says, and the words are formal enough to make me snort, which breaks the tension and replaces it with nervous laughter.
“Cool,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “Good.”
He leans in, this time with intention—no more games, no more holding back.
His mouth meets mine, and the first brush is light, exploratory, like he’s mapping the shape of me from the outside in.
I open my lips, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss, tasting, and pulling me into him.
There’s nothing polite about it now; it’s greedy, devouring, and I’m answering with every part of me that’s been starved for this.
His hands slide down my neck, pausing for just a second at my collar, before working their way over the curve of my shoulders and down my arms. I don’t realize I’m shaking until his fingers dig into my bicep, steadying me. The heat between us is thick and dizzying.
“I want you,” Camille says, breaking away just long enough to murmur the words against my mouth.
I want him too, and I’m about to say so, but as Camille’s teeth tug on my bottom lip, my body goes rigid, and a warning klaxon starts up in my brain.
I pull back, just a millimeter. “Wait.”
Camille’s eyes darken, every muscle in his body stilled in a breathless wait. I force myself to say it, because if I don’t, I never will. “I’m trans,” I rasp. “Like, I have—” I gesture downward, not trusting myself to finish.
His eyes flick down, then up, then a flicker of confusion and awareness passes through him. He says nothing. Doesn’t move a muscle.
My hands are shaking.
But then he looks at me as though I’ve told him the weather, not some secret that could make or break the night.
“And?” he says, voice soft but perfectly neutral.
I can’t read if it’s a good or bad kind of neutral.
“I am not concerned with the arrangement of your anatomy, Ryan,” he adds, and he says my name like it’s a benediction.
“But—you’re sure? It’s not—most people don’t expect—”
He speaks so low I feel it in my gut, not my ears.
“I expect that you are beautiful, and that you want this. I am very good at knowing what people want, and better at giving it to them.” His hand finds my jaw again, and his thumb brushes over my bottom lip before slipping inside my mouth.
I whimper and greedily wrap my tongue around the digit, watching as his pupils dilate.
As I suck, he continues, voice rough, “You do not need to warn me if you do not wish it, but if you have needs or boundaries—tell me now.”
I open my mouth, but my brain’s gone empty. I want him so much it’s painful. “I want—” My ears are ringing. “I want you to touch me. I want you to be rough and overwhelm me. I want to not have to explain every part—”
“Then do not explain,” he whispers, slipping his thumb out of my mouth before kissing me again. His tongue skirts the edge of my teeth, and when I gasp, he swallows the noise, one hand sliding down the side of my body, anchoring at my waist.
“Okay,” I sigh against his lips.
I break first and reach for him, scratching trembling fingers through the hair at the base of his skull, feeling the flex and heat of him.
He tastes like citrus and smoke. One of his hands lands on the strip of skin at my waist, and the other slides under the hem of my shirt, palm broad and assured across my ribs.
He moves so confidently, like he’s mapping a territory he’s already memorized, and I let him. I want him to win. The need to be wanted, and to be seen exactly as I am, seizes hard in my chest.
He pushes me back against the couch, and I tumble back, my eyes hooded as I watch him slide to his knees in front of me.
“You have a beautiful body,” he says.
Camille’s hands frame my hips, his thumbs stroking soft circles at the bare skin above my waistband.
He looks up, a silent question in his eyes.
I nod, and suddenly his face is pressed against my fly, mouth hot and open through the thin fabric, the pressure of his tongue and lips immediately overwhelming.
I make a sound I’ve only ever heard on porn sites, sharp and so loud I clamp a hand over my mouth, but Camille doesn’t stop—he doubles down, hands firm on my thighs, anchoring me as he sucks at me through the fabric, the friction building until I’m writhing and nearly sobbing with how good it is.
His hands move up my sides, fingers flexing into my ribs, and he bites the waistband, tugging it down with his teeth, and I nearly lose my mind right there.
I lift my hips for him, desperate, my arousal so intense I’m dizzy.
He drags my pants down just enough to expose me, his breath fanning over the wet spot on my underwear, and I tremble, acutely aware of every inch of skin revealed.
Camille’s teeth skim the damp cotton, and then he tugs it down in the same fashion he did my pants. When I’m finally bare, he looks up at me—eyes molten, pupils nearly swallowing the color—and the sight alone is enough to send a fresh spike of heat through my whole body. I can’t stop shaking.
“You—you really don’t have to—” I stammer, as Paul never once went down on me, saying it was my job to do that to him and—Oh, holy mother of fucking fuck.
Camille mouths at me, excruciatingly slow, his thick tongue flattening against my core, dragging through the folds, tasting every part of me like he’s memorizing it.
He’s not delicate; he devours me, unafraid, sucking my little dick so hard I nearly come before he even slides his lips down.
When he does, he takes it all, thrusting his tongue into me again and again and again, the pressure and heat and wetness so consuming I forget how to breathe.
I dig my fingers into the couch, desperate for purchase.
I think I say his name, or maybe I just moan it, but it doesn’t matter—he’s in control of everything, his hands pinning my hips, his mouth relentless. The feeling is more than I’ve ever known, and I can’t think, can’t do anything but gasp and twitch and submit.
He pulls off, just for a second, letting a string of spit break between us, and looks up at me, lips slick and eyes utterly feral. “You like it like this?” he rasps, voice thick and dark. “You like me feasting on this needy cunt?”
I nod frantically, semi-confused about why that specific word alone, dripping in his accent, almost just made me come, and he grins—a flash of white, wolfish and smug—and then he’s back on me, harder, faster, like he’s determined to draw every sound out of my body.
And then his hand joins his mouth, and I shudder so hard I nearly convulse.
My thighs try to clamp together, but one of Camille’s hands pins my left hip flat, while the other—his thumb—presses hard on my dick, circling so fast and perfectly that I bite down on my own fist to keep from screaming.
I crash through the first orgasm with zero warning—my body seizes, then splits into a scattered thousand pieces.
My head hits the back of the couch, and everything goes white for a good five seconds.