Without overthinking it, I slide from his lap to my knees on the floor before him. His eyes widen slightly, darkening with understanding as I place my hands on his thighs, feeling the coiled strength beneath the fine fabric of his trousers.
"Cecily," he murmurs, a question in my name.
"Let me," I say simply, my fingers moving to his belt, fumbling slightly in my eagerness. "Let me show you what you mean to me."
He doesn't stop me, though his breathing quickens as I work his belt free, then the button and zipper of his trousers. My hands shake with a mixture of nervousness and anticipation—I've never done this before, have only the vaguest idea of how to please a man this way. But for Sutton, I want to try. For Sutton, I want to give everything.
When I finally free him from the confines of his boxers, I can't help the small gasp that escapes me. He's already hard, impressively so, the sight of me on my knees apparently enough to arouse him. The knowledge sends a flood of warmth through me, a sense of feminine power I've never experienced before.
I look up, meeting his gaze, wanting guidance but too shy to ask for it directly. He understands, as he always does, reading my uncertainty with ease.
"Start slow," he instructs, his voice rougher than usual. "Use your hand first. Get comfortable with the feel of me."
I wrap my fingers around him, marveling at the contradiction of velvet skin over steel hardness. He hisses through his teeth at the contact, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of my head, not pushing, just a point of connection.
"That's it," he encourages as I begin to stroke, finding a rhythm that makes his breath catch. "Now, when you're ready, use your mouth. Just the tip at first."
I lean forward, emboldened by his guidance, by the desire evident in his tense muscles and quickened breath. The first taste of him is strange but not unpleasant—clean, slightly salty, undeniably male. I take just the head into my mouth as instructed, my tongue exploring the unfamiliar territory.
"Good girl," he praises, his fingers tangling in my hair. "So perfect. Take a little more now."
His praise spurs me on, makes me want to please him more, to draw those sounds of approval from his throat. I take him deeper, as much as I comfortably can, using my hand to cover what my mouth can't.
"Look at me," he commands softly, and I obey, lifting my gaze to meet his without stopping my ministrations. "I want to see your eyes while you take me."
The intimate eye contact adds another layer to the act, makes it more than just physical pleasure. I can see every flicker of reaction cross his face, can watch as the last vestiges of his control begin to slip.
"Perfect," he murmurs, his hips moving slightly now, a restrained thrust that carefully avoids pushing too deep. "You were made for this. Made for me."
His words send a wave of heat through me, pooling between my legs though he's not even touching me there. There's something intoxicating about pleasing him this way, about having this powerful man at my mercy even as I submit to him.
"That's it," he encourages as I find a rhythm that seems to particularly affect him, his breathing growing more ragged. "Just like that. Don't stop."
I follow his direction, emboldened by his pleasure, by the way his fingers tighten almost painfully in my hair. I want to be good at this for him. Want to show him that my gratitude goes beyond words, that I'm willing to give all of myself to the man who saved me.
"Cecily," he groans, a warning in my name. "I'm close. You don't have to?—"
But I don't pull away. I want this, want all of him, want to complete this act of devotion. I tighten my grip, increase my pace, determined to bring him to the edge and over it.
His control finally shatters. With a guttural groan, he comes, his release flooding my mouth in hot pulses. I swallow reflexively, the taste strange but not unpleasant, made sweeter by the knowledge that I've brought him this pleasure.
When the last shudder passes through him, he gently pulls me off him, his eyes dark with a mixture of satisfaction and something deeper, more possessive.
"Come here," he says, his voice rough as he tucks himself away, then helps me back onto the couch, positioning me to straddle his lap.
His mouth finds mine in a hungry kiss, tasting himself on my lips without hesitation or disgust. His hands grip my hips, guiding me into a slow rock against the hardness that's already returning beneath me.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he murmurs against my lips. "How perfect you are? How completely you've bewitched me?"
I shake my head, still overwhelmed by the intensity of what we've just shared, by the knowledge that I've pleased him so thoroughly.
"I'm going to show you," he promises, his hands already working at the button of my jeans. "I'm going to worship every inch of you until you forget that anyone but me has ever touched you, until the only name you remember is mine."
And as his fingers find the wetness between my thighs, as his mouth reclaims mine in a kiss that's both tender and possessive, I surrender completely to the man who has given me a future I never thought possible. The man who has shown me that freedom sometimes comes in the form of belonging completely to another.
Raymond is gone. The past is defeated. And in Sutton's arms, in his protection, in his possession, I've found a peace I never knew existed. A salvation I never knew I needed.
"Mine," he whispers against my skin as he lays me back on the couch, his body covering mine like a shield against the world. "All mine."
