“Relax,” I breathe, softer now, coaxing.
My hands slide under his shirt, palms meeting the heat of bare skin. He tenses, just for a second, then shivers as my fingers graze up his spine. God, he’s beautiful like this. Trembling, undone, caught between hesitation and hunger. He bites his lip shyly, but his eyes never leave mine. Color blooms over his freckled cheeks, and I can feel it—the shift.
The surrender.
“Tell me what you want, Lucas.” My voice is low, slow, curling around him like smoke. My hands grip his waist firmly, anchoring him in place.
He shakes his head, lips trembling.
“I…I don’t know.”
Don’t know?
But his body does, because he moves.
A hesitant grind of his hips against mine, a test, but enough to make both of us gasp. His clothed cock presses against me, dragging heat through the layers between us. The sound that escapes him is ragged, helpless, and his hands clutch at my shoulders like he’s afraid he might drown.
He doesn’t have the words, but I feel it in the way his breath stutters, in the way he leans into me, seeking. Wanting. Asking. And fuck, it’s all I can do not to tear every barrier away and give him exactly what he’s begging for without even saying it.
He grinds into me again, and a curse rips from my throat, low and rough. My fingers dig into his waist, steadying him, steadying myself, because if he keeps moving like that—
He freezes. Realization flickers across his face, panic sparking in his wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, breathless. “I didn’t mean—”
I don’t let him finish.
I claim his mouth instead, swallowing his apology with a kiss that’s deep, demanding, merciless. He moans against me, the sound muffled, his body softening instantly as his hands tangle in my hair, tugging me closer, holding me like he doesn’t want to let go.
And fuck, I’m gone for him.
I tear my lips from his only to drag them lower, along the sharp line of his jaw, slow and teasing. He trembles when my teeth graze his skin, when my mouth lingers just beneath his ear. His pulse hammers against my lips, frantic, his breath spilling out in broken little whimpers that only feed my hunger.
He shudders when I lick over the beat of his pulse, then he rolls his hips again, bolder this time, pressing hard against me.
Perfect.
I take my time down his neck, kissing, sucking, nipping—marking him with every press of my mouth. His moans grow needier, sharper, his nails biting into my shoulders. He’s so responsive it makes my restraint unravel, every sound he makes a thread snapping loose.
“Does that feel good, krasivy?” I murmur against his throat, the Russian slipping out like a secret meant only for him. Beautiful. I drag my teeth over his skin again, just enough to make him gasp, just enough to hear that desperate edge in his voice.
He answers me without words, hips grinding, breath shuddering, another moan spilling free. And my control fractures, I strip his shirt away in one motion, and he lets me. My gaze devours him—lean frame, pale skin dusted with freckles across his collarbones and shoulders.
His body is poetry I want to rewrite with my hands, with my mouth. I trace down his torso, the curve of his narrow waist making my palms itch to claim, to hold him there, to remind him he’s mine. He’s got the smallest waist I’ve ever seen on a man. It’s delicate and devastatingly seductive, something I want to wrap my hands around and never let go.
I kiss the ridge of his collarbone, then lower still, over the rise of his chest. His skin flushes beneath my mouth, heat spreading where my lips and teeth mark him. His stomach quivers when my fingers skim down, teasing, testing, promising more.
“Beautiful,” I rasp against his skin, voice raw. “So fucking perfect.”
He shivers, body tightening, his fingers clawing at my shoulders like he can’t decide if he wants to hold me back or pull me deeper into him.
I drag my hands upward, fingertips brushing over the ridges of his ribs, feeling every part of his body tense beneath my touch.His breath catches sharply when my thumbs brush over his nipples. His whole body jolts, a shudder running through him, before a broken moan slips past his lips. A grin ghosts over my mouth, and I press a teasing kiss to his throat, close enough for him to feel the shape of my smirk, before whispering,
“You like that?”
He nods, shaky, biting down hard on his bottom lip. The sight only makes me hungrier. I pinch lightly, rolling the sensitive buds between my fingers, and his head tips back in surrender. His hips buck helplessly, grinding into me, desperate and unthinking.
I tighten my grip on his waist, taking control, guiding the rhythm of his movements. Each slow, deliberate grind of his bulge against mine drags a pulse of white-hot pleasure through me. And fuck, his sounds. Those soft, breathy moans, slipping out of him like secrets, like he doesn’t even know he’s making them. They drive me insane.
