14. The Payload #2
I follow the instruction, mapping the terrain with my fingers the way I've mapped a thousand choreographic sequences—through repetition, through feel, through muscle memory. Velvet over steel. He's hot against my palm, the pulse of blood thrumming beneath the thin skin.
"Now your mouth." He releases my wrist. His hand returns to my hair, cradling the back of my skull. "Open. Take just the tip. Use your tongue."
I lean in, open my mouth, and close my lips over the smooth, broad head.
The taste is immediate—salt, skin, the faint metallic tang of his arousal. My tongue traces the ridge he pointed me toward, circling, exploring. The unfamiliar sensation triggers a primal satisfaction in my core. I'm learning him. I'm finding what makes him fracture.
"Fuck." His head drops back, a guttural groan vibrating through the dark room. "Just like that. Now take me deeper. A little at a time. Slide your lips down. Keep your tongue pressed flat against the underside."
I slide down, inch by inch, accommodating him. The stretch of my jaw aches, but the ache is a gift—proof of how much of him I'm taking. I sink lower until my gag reflex threatens, then pull back, dragging my tongue along the heavy vein on the underside.
"Use your hand on what you can't reach." The instruction is rougher now, fractured at the edges. "Match the rhythm. Your mouth and your hand, same speed."
I wrap my hand around the base, stroking in time with the movement of my lips. The coordination is a dancer's second nature—matching tempo, syncing body to beat. My mouth slides down as my hand strokes up, an unbroken rhythm.
"Christ." His fingers tighten in my hair. The muscles in his thighs tremble against my forearms. "You're a fast learner."
I've always been a fast learner.
Every fantasy I buried in the back of my mind, every forbidden scenario I imagined alone after midnight—they all led here. To a concrete room in a jungle logging camp, on my knees before the most dangerous man I've ever met, wanting all of him.
"Slower." His fingers pull my head back a fraction, regulating the pace. "Draw it out. Make me feel the edge."
I switch the tempo. The rapid descent transforms into an agonizing drag. I pull back, letting my lips trace the heavy veins lining his shaft, circling the blunt tip with the flat of my tongue. I swirl around the ridge beneath the head—the spot he showed me—pressing harder this time, lingering.
"Right there." His hips jerk. The involuntary thrust betrays how close the deliberate pacing has pushed him. "Don't move off that spot."
I focus everything on that single ridge of sensitive flesh, flicking my tongue in a tight pattern while my hand maintains the squeezing rhythm below.
The control I hold over him is the most intoxicating high I've ever experienced. The stage is a lie compared to the truth of this room.
His hips buck again, chasing the fading pressure.
"Lily." My name is a ragged prayer torn from his throat.
I pull back just enough to look up at him. The moisture on my lips catches the faint halogen light. The desperation in his expression fuels the throbbing ache between my thighs.
"I want to learn everything." My voice is steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I want you to teach me every single thing there is to know about making you feel like this. All of it. The things I can't even imagine yet—I want to know them. Show me your dark side, and I'll show you mine."
A vein throbs in his neck.
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"I know exactly what I'm asking for." I press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. "I've been thinking about it a lot longer than you realize."
His restraint snaps. The instruction is gone, replaced by something rawer, something desperate. I take him deep, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing against the thickness filling my throat. My hand grips the base, twisting slightly, the way his involuntary reactions have taught me he likes.
The operator who commands every room he enters is coming apart under my mouth, his chest heaving, and the knowledge is headier than anything he could teach me.
"Stop." The order is breathless, laced with raw urgency. Then his voice breaks lower, hoarse with the effort of forming words. "If you don't stop, I'm going to come in your mouth."
I look up.
Slowly. Deliberately. My eyes lock onto his.
I don't pull back.
I take him deeper.
I want this.
I want him unraveled and spilling into me. I want to swallow every drop of the control he's held in an iron fist.
His entire body goes rigid. The muscles in his thighs lock, turning to iron beneath my hands. A strangled sound tears through the quiet room.
He unloads into my mouth, the hot, heavy pulse filling me completely.
I hold him, swallowing, taking everything he gives me. The taste is thick, salt-bitter, entirely his. I don't pull away. I watch him instead—head bowed, breath ragged, gray eyes never leaving mine.
His hands grip my shoulders, fingers digging into the soft skin, anchoring himself.
The release leaves him hollowed out and gasping.
He looks down at me, kneeling between his thighs in the damp darkness.
The silence stretches, heavy with the shift between us.
Then he moves.
No warning. No preamble. He hauls me off the floor. His strength is staggering—two hundred twenty pounds of muscle lifting me like I weigh nothing. The room spins, and the rough canvas of the bed slams against my back.
He follows me down, pinning me beneath him.
"Your turn." Two words. A decree.
He shoves my pants down my thighs with one yank, stripping me bare. The humid air hits my skin and I gasp, my hips arching off the bed.
His calloused hand slides between my thighs, and two thick fingers push inside me without ceremony. A claiming.
"You're soaked." The observation is rough. His thumb finds my clit. "You liked that. You liked being on your knees."
I can't form words. The dual sensation of his fingers curling deep inside me and his thumb grinding slow circles obliterates coherent thought. My back arches, my hips chasing the pressure.
"Tell me."
"Yes." The admission is barely a whisper. "I loved it."
His fingers curl, finding a spot deep inside me that sends an electric jolt through my entire body. My hands fist in the rough canvas. The bed groans beneath us.
Then his mouth replaces his thumb.
I cry out at the first stroke of his tongue. My hips buck off the mattress and his free hand pins me down—one palm pressed flat against my lower abdomen, holding me in place while his mouth works with the same devastating patience he demanded of me.
He licks in deliberate patterns, taking his time, giving me the same focused attention he required minutes ago. His fingers maintain the deep, curling rhythm inside me, matching the tempo of his mouth.
"Dax—" His name breaks apart in my throat.
He presses harder with his tongue, flattening against my clit, increasing the pressure. His fingers twist, stroking the spot that sends white light splintering across my vision.
The orgasm builds like a crescendo in a Tchaikovsky score—gathering force in the strings, climbing through the woodwinds, detonating in the full orchestra's brass.
My entire body draws taut, every muscle locking.
The dancer's body, trained to hold impossible positions, holds this one—suspended on the razor edge of release while his mouth and his hands dismantle me.
"Let go." His voice vibrates against my flesh.
I shatter.
The climax rips through me. My spine arches off the bed, my thighs clamping around his head, my hands tangling in his short hair. The sound that tears from my throat is raw and unrecognizable—nothing like the controlled, composed woman who once stood in the wings of a theater, waiting for her cue.
His fingers keep their relentless rhythm, dragging out the aftershocks until I'm shaking and boneless beneath his weight.
He lifts his head. The moisture gleaming on his lips catches the halogen light. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture so casually obscene it sends a fresh wave of heat through my spent body.
He crawls up the length of the bed, his frame caging mine. His forearms bracket my head. The heat of his chest presses against my bare skin, and beneath the heavy muscle, he's hardening again—the rigid length pressing against my inner thigh.