The heat of her mouth swallowed him. “Fuck.” The word splintered against the stone walls as his hips thrust.
The gentle suction of her lips closed around him, and a bolt of white-hot sensation raced from the base of his spine to the crown of his skull. His vision blurred.
He’d done this before, but never like this.
In the past, it had been his mouth, his hands, his forced submission.
He withdrew slowly, watching his rigid flesh emerge from between her swollen lips, glistening and throbbing. “Are you okay?”
Her cheeks darkened as she licked her lips and shyly nodded.
“Thank fucking God.” He pressed forward again. Shallow. Controlled. His hips rocked in a rhythm that was gentle to the point of torment, giving himself barely an inch of that blinding warmth before pulling back, afraid of what would happen if he took more.
“Mmm,” she moaned, the sound vibrating against his shaft.
A broken sound tore from his chest. He slid further, feeling the tight seal of her lips, the warm press of her tongue curling against the underside of his cock, the impossible intimacy of being inside her mouth while the water thundered around them and the steam erased everything but sensation.
He wasn’t fucking her mouth. He was unraveling knots tied deep in his soul.
Each stroke peeled back another layer of the armor, so many years of shame and secrecy welded to his entire existence, locking him in agony until he forgot what basic pleasure felt like. Each wet, tender pull of her lips dissolved another year of clenched teeth and white-knuckled survival.
“Christ, don’t stop.” Jack stroked himself deeper, inch by careful inch.
The echo of his breathing beat off stone, the acoustics of the enclosed space amplifying every gasp and moan. In the end, it wasn’t friction or technique or the obscene visual of her kneeling before him with her arms pinned to the wall that undid him.
It was her tenderness. The softness of her surrender. The patience in her breathing. The way she adjusted to his rhythm, matching his tempo with an intuition that left him gutted.
They weren’t performing. They were dancing. A tango of trust and graceful dominance. She received him, accepted him, with such openness it cracked his chest wide open.
His breath split into shallow, ragged gasps as his hips jerked. Pressure built at the base of his spine, molten and unbearable, and his grip on her hands trembled so violently.
He pulled free of her mouth with an agonized moan and staggered backwards, releasing her hands.
Water beat him back like a current, ceaselessly driving his mind to all the versions of himself he’d been before. The pivot from intense arousal to excruciating grief laid him bare, with nowhere to hide.
He turned his back to her and threw his body into the wall, bracing his arm under his eyes, as a sob tore from his throat, wrenching and ugly. His body convulsed, and he pounded his fist into stone, gritting his teeth as something giant that had been planted inside of him for years suddenly released.
Another hoarse cry ripped from his throat as unexpected relief bombarded him. Hope, like he hadn’t felt in decades, flooded his chest until his body ached as if it might burst. Despite the carnage of all the broken pieces left behind, there might be something salvageable in him still.
A jagged breath broke through, and he gasped. Daisy came to stand beside him, silent and stoic, letting the moment stand.
She took his hand, lacing her fingers with his, and squeezed.
Jack turned and pulled her to him, her breasts crushing against his chest as he wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her to him.
A hug.
Grief emptied from his body in jagged, convulsive bursts. She didn’t rush him or dare to let go.
Only when the sobs subsided, and his breathing settled into something human again, did she pull back to look up at him. “That was beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
He knew then what the pain in his chest was. He’d only felt it a few times before. Once, when Myrtle rested beside him in her bed. Another time, when his heart broke at the thought that Mr. Carrow might have been gone. And, the hardest one to remember, when Mum looked at him as just a son, before she ever thought to trade him like currency for crack and a few lousy beans.
The pain in his chest was love.
Daisy reached up and dragged a gentle hand down his face, wiping water and tears away. He closed his eyes against her soft caress and kissed her palm.
He traced his thumb over her swollen lips and asked, “Do you still want to stay?”
