The shift in the power dynamic shocks me. Every experience I've ever had has been the reverse of this. I'm the one on my knees. I'm the one looking up. I'm the small one, the compliant one, the one whose mouth was a tool that bigger men used when they wanted to use it. That's the only version of this I know.
And now the biggest man I've ever known is looking up at me with dark eyes, parted lips and his hands on the backs of my thighs. The expression on his face is not dominance. It's worship for me.
"If Sheila walks in," he says, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the sweatpants, "pat me on the head and I'll pretend I'm searching for something on the floor."
"What would you be looking for on the floor behind the bar?"
"I don't know. A lost contact lens. That's always a good answer. An earring. My dignity. We'll figure it out. I've always maintained a strict policy of no sexual activity behind, on, or within fifteen feet of the bar top. I am about to violate that policy spectacularly and I want you to know that I'm aware of the hypocrisy and I've decided I'm fine with it. Dad would understand. Dad would probably applaud. Mom would not."
He pulls the sweatpants down slowly, his eyes on mine, watching my face, reading me. Making sure I'm here with him, choosing this.
"Right now, I need to touch you. To taste you. And honestly, to fulfill a fantasy I've been jerking off to forever."
The sweatpants slide past my hips, past my thighs. No underwear underneath. I'm already hard—I've been hard since he started talking about the shower and wanting me—and his eyes drop. His breath catches and his hands tighten on the backs of my thighs.
"God," he says softly. "Look at you."
"Tex—"
"No. Let me look." His hands move up the backs of my thighs, slow, the rough pads of his fingers against my skin, tracing the muscle, the curve, the places where the tan meets the paler skin that the sun doesn't reach. His thumbs trace the crease where my thighs meet my hips and I shiver. My hand finds the edge of the bar top because I need to hold on. "You have no idea what you look like. You have no idea what you do to me. I'm twice your size and I'm on my knees in my own bar because I can't stand up straight when you're in front of me. That's what you do. That's your power. And nobody ever told you that because the men in your life were too busy taking to notice what they had."
His mouth finds my hip. The bone. He kisses it, slow, open-mouthed, his tongue tracing the ridge, and my knees almost buckle. He steadies me with his hands, one on each thigh, holding me upright because he knows my body is going to stop cooperating and he's planned for it.
He kisses across my stomach. Low. Lower. His beard drags across my skin and the sensation is rough and soft at the same time, scratching and soothing, and every nerve in my body is focused on the path his mouth is taking and where it's going.
He pulls back and looks up at me. The sunlight is coming through the windows behind the bar, backlighting him, catching the copper in his beard. He's breathtaking. Thisenormous man on his knees is the best thing I've ever seen. I want to tell him that but my voice is gone, replaced by a heartbeat that I can feel in my throat and my wrists and the tip of my cock that's inches from his mouth.
"Tell me you want this," he says.
"Oh, I want this, Tex."
"Tell me this is yours."
"You're mine, Tex."
His mouth closes around me and the world falls away.
The bar. The plan. Ron. The gun on the nightstand. The hot pink shirt bunched up around my chest. All of it drops into a white silence and the only thing left is Tex's mouth, hot and wet and impossibly thorough, and the sound I make is not quiet. It bounces off the new walls and the neon beer signs and fills the empty room with the evidence that I am alive and being loved.
He takes me deep because his mouth is proportional to the rest of him, which is to say it's big, and he uses every inch of it. His tongue works the underside, pressing flat, dragging slow, and then swirling around the tip in a way that makes my hips jerk and my hand leave the bar and find his hair. The thick, brown, slightly too long hair that falls across his forehead, and I grip it. He groans around me and the vibration of that groan runs through my entire body like a bass note.
"Oh God—"
He pulls back to the tip. Sucks. Hard. My spine goes rigid and I'm gripping the hair of a man who is on his knees behind his father's bar doing things with his tongue that should be illegal in the state of Florida and probably are.
He finds a rhythm. Slow and deep, then shallow and fast, alternating, reading my body with the full attention of aman who has decided that this is the only thing that matters right now. His hands move from my thighs to my ass, cupping, pulling me closer, and I rock into his mouth because he wants me to. And I want to and wanting to is still the newest and most staggering part of all of this.I want.Not I endure. Not I allow. I want.
I look down at him. His eyes are closed. His lashes rest against his cheeks. His mouth is stretched around me and his hands are holding me. His knees are on the floor of his bar and he looks like a man who is exactly where he wants to be. Not taking. Giving. This is Tex giving me something pure that no one has ever given me—the experience of being desired by someone who is content to be on their knees. The experience of power that isn't taken. Power that is offered.
"Tex—I'm close—I can't—"
He opens his eyes. And there it is. The thing that breaks me open every time—the look. The soft, fierce, impossible look that says everything I desperately need to hear. I love you and I want you and you are safe and you are mine and none of those things contradict each other. He holds my eyes and he takes me deeper. His hand grips my hip and pulls me forward and I'm hitting the back of his throat. He doesn't gag, doesn't pull away, just swallows around me and hums. The vibration and the heat and the look in his eyes all collide at once.
I come apart in his mouth.
My hand is gripping his hair while my other hand white-knuckles the bar top. My body curls forward over his head, folding, collapsing, and the sound I make is raw and wrecked and it fills the bar. He takes it. All of it. His mouth works me through every pulse, every aftershock, his hands holding my hips steady because my legs have stopped working and the only thing keeping me upright is his grip.
He eases off slowly. A last soft kiss to the tip that makes me shudder. Then he sits back on his heels and looks up at me and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
