I thread my fingers through his hair, tightening my grip at the base of his skull. “Open.”
He does.
I guide my cock to his lips, pressing just enough to feel the heat of his breath, but not enough to push in. Not yet.
He flicks his gaze up, teasing. “Gonna make me work for it?”
I yank his head back just enough to make him gasp.
“No teasing,” I warn. “You take what I give you.”
His pupils flare with heat, with fuck yes, make me.
And then I slide between his lips, past that smirk, past that teasing tongue, until I’m hitting the back of his throat in one slow, agonizing glide.
Carson chokes. His lashes flutter.
But he doesn’t pull away.
No—he takes it. Takes me.
My grip in his hair tightens, my other hand cupping his jaw, feeling the way his throat flexes around my cock. I groan, tipping my head back, my fingers curling tighter in his hair.
“Fuck, that’s it, Carson.” My voice is rough, already strained, already so fucking close. “Take it deeper.”
He moans, his hands sliding up my thighs, holding me there, keeping my cock buried deep in his throat as his lips seal around me. His tongue flicks, his throat works—and fuck.
I lose it.
A sharp growl rips from my throat as I thrust forward, fucking his mouth in slow, deep strokes, keeping him exactly where I want him. His nails dig into my skin, his eyes flutter shut, his body completely relaxed beneath my touch.
And when I finally release, my groan is raw, as he swallows it all down like the good little brat he is.
I pull back. He licks his lips, thumbing some of my come into his mouth, smirking up at me, hazel eyes molten. “That’s all you got?”
Oh, he wants more.
And fuck—I’ll give it to him.
I haul him to his feet and toss him over my shoulder with a grunt. He lets out a surprised laugh, smacking my ass before I carry him into my room, slamming the door shut behind us.
He’s begging for it.
Not with words—he knows better than that. But it’s there. In the twitch of his lips. In the flex of muscle, coiled and ready. In the grin that cuts sharp, smug, daring me to deny it.
He thinks he’s already won.
He hasn’t.
And he’s about to regret thinking he did.
I drop him onto the bed, and he bounces once, his laughter cutting off as I climb over him, caging him in with my body, pinning him to the mattress.
“You think this is funny?” My voice is low, rough. I work my leg between his, and he shifts to give me space.
Carson meets my gaze, his hazel eyes flickering with something knowing. Something teasing.
“I think you’re mad,” he purrs. “And I think I know why.”
