I reach for his belt, a small smirk on my lips.
His gaze sharpens—hunger, longing, and pure disbelief flickering there.
“Lily…” His voice cracks on my name.
His obvious want fuels my confidence, my movements precise as I undo the buckle.
The metal clinks, and I slide the straps free, then I move to the zipper, lowering it slowly, deliberately, thezzzploud in the charged silence.
And then I go down with it, careful of my ankle as I sink to my knees on the bathmat, never breaking eye contact.
A rush of air escapes him in a long, low exhale.
I ease him free, the heat of him heavy against my palm as I stroke his length once, twice—slow, deliberate—before guiding him between my lips. The taste of him, salt and want, teases my tongue.
His hand shoots out behind him to steady himself, gripping the edge of the towel rail like he’s drowning.
“Lily…”
It’s a warning and a prayer, my name spoken like he can’t believe I’m real.
Somewhere in the house, someone calls his name.
With a frustrated growl, Brandon swings the bathroom door and locks it.
“Should I keep going?” I ask, half-teasing, but my heart is racing, nerves forming at the thought that the others are wondering where we are. How long have we been here?
“Don’t—” His voice catches. “Don’t stop.”
It’s half-plea, half-command, his pupils blown wide as he surrenders. I like seeing him like this. Undone. Relinquishing control. It makes me feel powerful. I grip him, his body jerking to my touch, his head falling back to hit the glass.
I take him deeper, slow and deliberate, feeling the shudder that rolls through him. His hips flex involuntarily; his head falls back to hit the glass with a muted thud.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Lily…you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
Idoknow. And I want to do a lot more of it.
Loud knocks on the bathroom door.
Sean’s voice. “Sorry to do this to you, mate. But we’re going to be late.”
“Fuck.” Brandon rubs his eyes tiredly.
“Should I keep going?” This time, I’m definitely teasing him, my lips curling as I pull back just enough to let cool air brush his broad head before brushing a feather-light kiss to the broad tip.
He twitches, hands curling into a fist as he looks down at me, his expression wrecked.
“Oh fuck.”
I rise slowly, my hands gliding over his jeans, his shirt, feeling the planes of his abs, his chest, before trailing kisses up his neck, grazing his jawline. His hands settle on my waist, drawing me against him.
Another sharp knock.
“We should go,” I whisper.
50
Angst
