And the look on his face—the hunger and fear and fire tangled together—burns straight through me. Because this isn’t just a step. This is Ollie Marshall choosing to cross a line I suspect he swore he never would.
His mouth hovers over mine like he’s waiting for a signal. I give it with a kiss, soft but sure, then lean back against the pillows. “Ollie,” I murmur, my chest still heaving, “you don’t have to?—”
“I want to,” he cuts in, almost defensive. His eyes dart away for a second, then return to mine. “I’ve thought about it. I want to.”
That admission lands heavy between us, not shameful but charged, like he’s handed me something fragile. I nod once, slow, and let my hand slide from his neck to his shoulder, giving him space.
He moves carefully at first, like a man learning a new play. His hands push up under my shirt, dragging the fabric higher until it’s bunched at my ribs. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to my chest, my stomach. His breath is uneven, his cheeks flushed, but he keeps going, each touch a little braver.
When he shifts lower, settling between my thighs, I have to bite back a sound that would give away just how much this is undoing me. His big hands grip my hips, anchoring me, and for the first time, he looks up through his lashes. There’s heat there, and fear, and something that looks a hell of a lot like want.
“You sure?” My voice cracks.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
I nod, heart hammering.
His fingers fumble at my waistband. When he finally frees my cock, the cool air makes me hiss through my teeth. His gaze flicks down, then back up, and fuck—the look on his face is a mix of awe and determination.
The first touch of his mouth is tentative, soft. My hips jerk despite myself, and his grip tightens, holding me steady. He tries again, firmer this time, his lips sealing around me. The heat of it rips a groan straight out of me, loud in the quiet room.
“Jesus, Ollie….” I fist the sheets before I force myself to reach for him instead, brushing my fingers through his hair. Not pushing, just touching. Letting him know I’m here.
He finds a rhythm—slow, deliberate. He pulls back, then takes me deeper, his cheeks hollowing, and the sight of it nearly makes me shoot my load.
Every breath is fire. Every sound he makes—a hum, a low groan when I curse under my breath—feeds the blaze. My ballsdraw up when he sucks harder. “Fuck, baby.” A groan follows and seems to spur him on, and he goes deeper, gags, and eases off before trying again.
“You don’t have—fuck!” His throat tightens around my cock, shooting heat down my spine and to my balls. “Nngh!”
His gaze clashes with mine, moisture gathering at the edges, but fuck if I’ve ever seen him look as beautiful with his plump lips wrapped around my cock, satisfaction blazing my way.
He’s not perfect at it, not polished, but that’s what kills me most. He’s learning me, learning this, giving me all that control he usually clutches in his fists. Each hesitant slide of his tongue, each shaky inhale—it’s raw, real, intoxicating.
“Ollie, fuck—” I grit out, my hand tightening in his hair when he takes me deeper again. He makes a sound, like a growl muffled around me, and my vision whites at the edges.
I can’t last. Not with him looking up at me through dark lashes, cheeks flushed, lips wrapped around me like this. Not with the knowledge that he chose this, that he wanted this.
“Gonna—” I warn, my voice breaking. “Ollie, I’m?—”
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he doubles down, grip iron on my hips as he swallows me down again. The sheer recklessness of it wrecks me. I spill with a broken groan, my whole body shaking apart, his name a rough prayer in the air.
When it’s over, I collapse against the pillow, chest heaving, sweat cooling on my skin. He pulls away, lips wet, eyes wild, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
For a second, neither of us moves. Then I sit up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him. Slow, messy, and grateful.
“You were fucking perfect,” I whisper against his lips.
“Yeah?” he asks. There’s something fierce in his eyes—like he’s just proven something to himself, not just to me.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me fall even harder.
I’m still wrecked from what he just did—body loose, chest aching like I’ve sprinted ten flights of stairs—when I realize he’s shifting away, settling back on his heels. His cheeks are flushed, his chest rising like he’s just finished a game.
“You okay?” I manage, my voice sandpaper.
He smirks, quick and sharp. Not cocky exactly, but sure. “Better than okay.”
And that—that—undoes me in a whole new way. He’s not hiding, not panicking. He’s proud of himself. Like he just walked off the court after nailing the winning shot.
