His hand settled in my hair. The touch sent electricity racing down my spine. But this wasn't about arousal. His palm cupped the back of my skull, thumb tracing the sensitive line where my hairline met my neck.
One day, my knees would betray me completely. Arthritis was already making its presence known on cold mornings. Age would eventually make this position unbearable. But whatever came, we would adapt. Find new rituals. The specific posture mattered less than what it represented.
I was getting sentimental. Dangerous before a mission.
His breathing shifted above me, deeper now, matching the steady stroke of his fingers through my hair. I turned my face into the wool of his pants, lips brushing the fabric that separated me from his skin. Beneath the cloth, his thigh muscle tensed.
Time suspended. No Lucky Losers. No Shaw. No tactical briefings or extraction protocols. Just this man and the choice I'd finally made to stop hiding.
I found his calves, palms molding to the firm muscle beneath fine fabric. The material was soft, perfectly tailored, but I wanted it gone. Wanted nothing between us. His breath hitched above me, barely audible, but I caught it. My cock stirred, blood redirecting with the efficiency of a body that knew what it wanted even when the mind tried to complicate matters.
I traced higher, fingers mapping his legs through wool. The hand in my hair tightened. His other hand joined the first, both cradling my head against his leg.
Heat radiated through the fabric where my cheek pressed against him. I could feel him hardening, the shape of his cock becoming distinct through his pants, and my mouth watered.
I looked up at him through my eyelashes. His face had transformed, the sharp edges of authority gentled into something I'd glimpsed only in our most private moments.
I moved to his belt, the Italian leather buttery soft, the buckle cool against my knuckles as I worked it free. He made no sound, but his pupils dilated.
The belt slid free with a whisper of leather against wool. I set it aside, then moved to his pants, undoing the buttons slowly. I wanted to remember this, to file away every detail in case Macau went wrong.
Morbid thinking. Unproductive. I focused on the task.
The fabric parted, revealing the flat plane of his stomach, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband. He wore nothing underneath. The realization sent heat straight to my groin, my cock pressing painfully against my zipper. But this wasn't about my needs. This was about him.
His pants pooled around his ankles. His cock stood hard and flushed dark, the head already wet. I'd seen him naked hundreds of times during his recovery. Clinical circumstances. Medical necessity. This was different. This was permission.
I leaned forward, tongue tracing the base of his shaft. He tasted of clean salt and musk, purely him. His whole body shuddered, one hand bracing against the armrest, knuckles white.
I followed the prominent vein from root to crown. His thigh muscles quivered under my free hand. A soft sound escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and something more desperate. The hand in my hair massaged my scalp in slow circles.
When I reached the head, I circled it with my tongue. His hips jerked forward, and satisfaction spread through my chest.
I took him into my mouth properly, lips stretching around him. He was substantial, but I relaxed and took him deeper, inch by inch.
Above me, his breathing turned ragged. The hand on the armrest gripped the leather hard enough to damage it. His other hand never left my hair, fingers now gripping the strands like an anchor.
"Maxime,” he murmured.
I hummed acknowledgment around him, and the vibration made him gasp and thrust deeper. My hands gripped his hips, holding him steady as I worked. This wasn't about technique. This was about showing him what words had never adequately expressed.
I pulled back until just the head remained between my lips, then sank down again, taking him to the root. I held him there, throat working around his length, until my lungs burned.
When I withdrew, saliva connected my lips to his cock. The sight made my own arousal spike, but I ignored it. This was for him.
I established a slow and thorough rhythm. My tongue mapped every ridge and sensitive spot. The thick vein. The head. The slit where pre-cum kept gathering.
His hips began to move, subtle rolls matching my rhythm. The hand in my hair guided without demanding. Partnership, even here.
When his grip tightened to the point of pain, when his control started fraying, I pulled away.
His eyes snapped open. His cock jerked in front of my face, slick and swollen and desperate.
I had other plans.
I rose to my feet, legs unsteady from kneeling, and fumbled with the buttons of my shirt. He reached out to help me. My jacket hit the floor, shirt buttons opening until his palms could span my chest. His thumbs found my nipples, already tight, and rolled them between his fingers.
The sensation shot straight to my cock. I gasped as he pulled me onto his lap and kissed me. His tongue delved deep, tasting himself on my lips, and I let myself melt into him.
