The man on his knees worked his partner, taking him deep, then easing off to tongue the head, before swallowing him again.
Oliver’s hips turned as his body sought the friction his mind wouldn’t allow him to pursue.
The scene progressed, and the dom rose and turned the other man to face the wall. He retrieved lubricant, slicked his fingers, and began to prepare his partner.
Oliver’s whole body went rigid as he watched the fingers push deeper and the sub’s arse clench involuntarily. One finger became two. When the dom added a third finger, the man’s mouth fell open on a silent moan. He stretched and prepared and opened him up.
Oliver’s hand drifted toward his cock, but he didn’t touch himself.
Had he reached the point in his desire where he could admit to himself that he wanted another man’s hands on him? To be on his knees? To be opened and taken?
When the dom finally positioned himself and pushed inside his partner, Oliver swayed toward the glass.
His face revealed everything as the dom fucked his partner with long, deep strokes. With every thrust, Oliver tensed and released, synching his own rhythm with theirs.
“Enough,” I said when I couldn’t bear not touching him. “We’re leaving.”
Oliver blinked rapidly, like a man waking from a dream.
He didn’t ask questions or protest. He nodded once and followed Ophelia and me toward the exit.
He couldn’t look at me, and that was exactly what I wanted.
We remainedsilent on the return trip to the castle, and when we emerged into Greymarch, I stopped in the corridor.
“Ophelia. Go to your room. Oliver and I need to talk.”
She studied me, then him, before nodding once and disappearing down the hallway.
“Come.” I motioned for him to follow me to the library.
The room was dark except for the fire I’d had laid earlier. The flames cast shadows across Oliver’s face as he fought to steady his breathing.
I closed the door behind us.
“Sit before you fall down.”
He rested on the arm of the sofa and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’ve never—” He looked up at me with wild eyes. “And now, all I can think about is—” He cut himself off.
I crossed the room slowly, giving him time to stop me if he needed to.
He didn’t.
I stood within reach, close enough that he had to tilt his head to look at me.
“Tell me what you can’t stop thinking about,” I said.
“You,” he whispered. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“And what do you think about?”
“Your hands in my hair. On my shoulder at the club. On me.”
“What else?”
