Michael did—once, twice—then stilled.
His eyes dropped to where our bodies were pressed together, to my cock slick and flushed between us, and something in his expression shifted. Gone was the teasing softness. Gone was the careful reverence.
What replaced it was hunger.
Real. Undeniable. Starving.
He leaned down and kissed my chest, slow at first, then open-mouthed, messy, his tongue dragging over my skin like he couldn’t get enough. He kissed down my sternum, over my stomach, leaving wet heat in his wake, and I sucked in a sharp breath as his mouth got lower.
“Michael—” I started, but he didn’t stop.
He kissed the base of my cock through the slick mess between us, then looked up at me, eyes dark and intent, lips swollen and wet. “I need this,” he said quietly. Not a question. A truth.
Then he took me.
No hesitation. No teasing.
His mouth was hot and open and greedy, lips sliding down the length of my cock in one smooth motion that made my vision white out. I groaned, loud and helpless, hands flying to his hair as he sank lower, taking me deeper than I expected, nose brushing my skin, throat relaxing around me like he’d been made for it.
“Fuck—Michael?—”
He moaned around me, a low, satisfied sound, and bobbed his head, setting a slow, relentless rhythm. His mouth was wet—slick with spit and precum—and every pull back was just enough to make me ache before he took me deep again, swallowing me like he was starving.
I let my hands rest in his hair, not forcing, just holding on, feeling the way he worked me with intent. He wasn’t trying to be pretty. He was hungry. Desperate. His tongue dragged along the underside of my cock on every stroke, hitting that spot that made my hips jerk involuntarily.
“You’re—fuck—you’re incredible.” I breathed, chest heaving.
That only made him go harder.
He sucked me deeper, throat working, spit slipping down his chin, hand coming up to stroke what his mouth couldn’t take. His grip was firm, sure, working in time with his mouth, milking me steadily, unrelentingly.
He pulled back just long enough to drag his tongue over the head, swirling, lapping up the slick mess there, then took me back in again, deeper, wetter. I could hear it—the obscene, needysounds of his mouth working me, the soft gag he didn’t fight, the way he relaxed and kept going anyway.
My cock was soaked. Completely coated in spit, shiny and flushed and leaking, every pull of his mouth dragging another broken sound out of my chest. I threaded my fingers through his hair, not pushing, just holding, grounding myself as my hips twitched with every slow, greedy stroke.
“Fuck, Michael,” I breathed. “You’re—fuck—look at you.”
He pulled back just enough to breathe, spit stringing from his lips to my cock, then dove back in, taking me deep again like he couldn’t help himself. Spit ran freely now, dripping down his chin, over his throat, slicking his hand as he stroked me. He used it shamelessly, pumping me with long, wet strokes while his mouth worked the head, tongue flicking and circling, dragging every last nerve ending to the surface.
I was shaking. Actually shaking.
“Hey,” I said, voice rough, fingers tightening in his hair. “Come here.”
He looked up at me, lips swollen and red, eyes dark and blown wide, spit still shining on his mouth. He didn’t pull away until I gently guided him up, my cock slipping free with a wet sound.
I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing through the mess on his chin, and kissed him—slow, deep, tasting myself on his tongue. He moaned into my mouth, greedy, hands already reaching for me again.
“Sit on my face,” I said quietly.
The words landed heavy between us.
Michael froze for half a second, then his breath hitched. “Daniel?—”
“I want you,” I said, firmer now. “All of you. I want to eat you. Want you riding my mouth until you forget your own name.”
His eyes burned. “You’re not gonna survive that.”
I smiled. “Try me.”
