"Look at you," he whispers. "So fucking pretty like this. You're the fucking standard now."
I moan again, while my spit soaks his dick.
My hand is shaking around the base. I don't want to stop. I want to make him cum down my throat and praise me for it.
Begging with my actions and I don't even care.
Because when Gio talks? When Gio praises me?
It's like the whole world fucking tilts.
I need to be told I'm doing it right.
That I'm making him feel good.
That I'm giving him what he needs.
"God, Rava—" His voice cracks. "What the fuck did you just do with your tongue, do it again, don't stop—" His grip in my hair goes rigid. His thighs lock.
And I let him fuck my mouth. He’s close. I can feel it. In the way his thighs tremble. In the death grip he has on my hair. But most of all, in the way he keeps trying not to make a fucking sound. We aren't alone. There are voices down the hall. He knows it. I know it. And it makes everything worse. But better.
I hollow my cheeks, suck harder. They don't know I’ve got Gio's dick down my throat.
God.
God, it's hot. The secret. The silence. Me on my knees, him barely holding it together. The risk of someone knocking. The idea that anyone could hear if he's too loud.
"Rava," he hisses through gritted teeth, "fuck, I'm gonna—"
I suck deeper. Want him to cum completely undone, right here, right now, and not be able to moan about it. His body jerks and his hand flies up, clamps hard over his own mouth just as his hips buck and I feel the first hot pulse of his orgasm shoot down my throat.
I want to smile. His head slams back against the wall. His hand over his mouth. The other one yanking my hair tight, like he's hanging on for dear life, like he's trying not to scream.
And fuck, I love it so much. His dick twitches in my mouth, spilling over my tongue. His abs clench, the whole time he’s muffling himself with his own hand, desperately quiet. I reach up and grip his wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth just a little, to hear the sound that slips out.
It’s a gasp. A guttural, broken one. I smile. He’s still on it. So I suck harder. Let him have it. Let him fuck my throat until he has nothing left. And when he finally stops, I pull back.
I swallow, lick my lips, look up at him. He’s flushed. But his grip in my hair doesn't loosen. Instead, he tugs me forward.
"You like that?" he rasps. "Watching me bite my tongue so I don't moan your name out loud?"
I nod, breathless. "So fucking much."
He tugs again, rougher. "You're sick."
I smile. "I know."
"Your head game is dangerous. I should report you."
My skin shivers. Then he kisses me. I can barely stand. My knees are numb. But we move, grinning, hands on each other until I’m leaning against the wall and he’s fixing his pants.
I reach up and start buttoning his shirt for him. He watches me with a lazy smirk. "You good?" he asks. I smirk right back. "I just got throat-fucked into another dimension. So yeah. I'm good."
He snorts, but there’s affection in it. He grabs a tissue, wipes the corner of my mouth gently. "Can’t let them see you like this," he mutters.
"Like what?"
"Like you just blew me so good I almost blacked out."
