That’s all the permission he needs. He tilts his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss just above my hipbone, slowly dragging his tongue over my skin. I groan, low and broken, my hand sliding to the back of his neck, threading through his curls.
“Más lento,” I whisper. “Lo voy a perder.”
Luke smirks against my skin. “No clue what that means, but it sounded filthy.”
I shake my head, breath shallow. “It means I’m gonna lose it.”
“Good.”
His mouth finds the crease of my thigh next, soft kisses that make my whole body tense. His hands grip my hips to hold me steady as he presses forward, all teasing heat and promise.
His lips brush lower. Then lower still.
By the time he reaches the base of my cock, my hand is shaking in his hair, fighting the instinct to thrust forward—fighting the need to fuck his mouth the way I’ve dreamed about since the first time I saw him. But I won’t. I can’t.
Because this isn’t about power. This is about him choosing me.
Luke parts his lips, tongue flicking out in one slow stroke over my slit that has me gasping through my teeth. His eyes never leave mine.
“Mierda,” I mutter, my voice rough and wrecked. “Eres… demencial.”
“Still don’t speak Spanish,” he says with a wicked grin, hand stroking me slowly and deliberately as he leans forward. “But I’m guessing that wasn’t an insult.”
It wasn’t.
It was the opposite.
It was a prayer.
He wraps his mouth around me in one long glide, lips plush and warm, tongue pressed tight underneath as he sinks down. I hiss, every muscle locking, my free hand flying to the edge of the desk behind him for balance as I fight the urge to fall apart too fast.
“Luke,” I breathe. “Fuck?—”
He moans in response, like the sound of my voice alone is enough to wreck him. It vibrates through me like a shot straight to the spine, and I swear to god, if he keeps that up, I’m going to lose every ounce of control I’ve ever had.
His rhythm is torturous. Skilled. Slow enough to drag it out, fast enough to keep my body burning for more. His hand works in time with his mouth, twisting and stroking, and when he pulls back just to suck my balls into his mouth before licking a stripe up the underside, I nearly fall apart.
“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” I growl, fingers tightening in his hair. “Mírame.”
He does, remembering the command from our first time. Eyes wide. Lips swollen. Mouth open as he takes me back in again—until I hit the back of his throat, and he gags slightly.
“Good boy,” I whisper, and I feel him shiver.
Fuck. I feel everything.
The heat. The pressure. The emotion curling so tight in my chest I can barely breathe. It’s too much. It’s not enough.
And when he moans again—when I feel the slick pull ofhis mouth, the way he strokes me like he wants to blow—I know I’m not going to last.
“Luke—” My voice breaks. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m?—”
His hand squeezes my thigh, his mouth never stopping, and I let go. With a broken curse and a full-body shudder, I come hard, my knees buckling slightly, my hips stuttering forward as he takes it, every last drop, until I’m spent and shaking and completely fucking ruined.
When he finally pulls off, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, he grins up at me—cocky and so fucking gorgeous.
And mine. God help me, I want him to be mine.
I reach for him, still breathless, and run my hand through his hair again—gentler this time. Reverent.
