"Watch me make you."
His pupils dilated, swallowing the color of his irises. Good. That I could work with.
I dropped to my knees.
The carpet was rough and cheap, the kind that would leave marks. Adrian whimpered when I reached for his belt.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I looked up at him. "Unless you don't want me to. I can make you a sandwich instead. Hotels have bread—"
"Please stop talking about bread."
"Make me."
His hands were shaking too hard to enforce anything, so I executed my plan. Belt—the leather warm from his body. Button—my thumb brushing the soft skin below his navel. Zipper—loud in the silent room.
He was already hard. I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and watched his face change—his eyes fluttered, and his jaw went slack. His entire body exhaled for the first time since I'd walked through the door.
"There you go," I murmured. "There you are."
I took him into my mouth, and the moan that escaped went straight through me—low, wrecked, surprised. He tangled his fingers into my hair, not guiding, holding on. His fingers curled and uncurled against my scalp in rhythm with my movements.
I paid attention to his responses. The specific tension of his thigh under my palm. The pitch of sound that meant more versus the hitch of breath that meant close.
"You can—" I said, pulling off just long enough to speak. "Move. I've got you."
"I don't want to—"
"I can take it, Adrian. Let go."
I took him deep, and his hips jerked before he could stop them. His hand fisted in my hair—almost painful, perfect—and the sound he made was the most honest thing I'd heard from him in days.
"Pickle—I'm going to—"
I didn't pull back.
He came with a shattered groan, his whole body seizing up. I worked him through it, feeling every pulse and every aftershock, until he collapsed back against the headboard like someone had cut his strings.
When I sat back on my heels, my knees ached from the carpet. Adrian looked like someone who'd finally stopped drowning.
"Get up here," he rasped. "Now."
I climbed onto the bed, and before I could settle, his hand was on my jaw, pulling me forward until his mouth covered mine. He kissed me deep and filthy, tasting himself on my tongue. His other hand worked my jeans open, shoving them down, wrapping around me with a grip that made my vision white out at the edges.
"You don't have to—"
"Shut up." He twisted his wrist, and I lost the rest of the sentence. "I want to. Let me."
His touch was precise and devastating. He paid attention to everything—what made me gasp and what made me grab his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"There," I managed, "right there, don't stop—"
"I've got you." His mouth against my ear whispered rough and low. "Let go. I'll catch you."
I came so hard I stopped breathing for a moment. His hand kept moving until I was shaking and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his wrist.
Afterward, we lay tangled among the scattered papers.
