I pull him back in, and we keep moving—no rhythm, no rules, just the two of us, together.
This is the closest I’ve ever let anyone get.
It terrifies me.
But for tonight, I’ll allow it.
After all, I can kill him if he so much as breathes wrong.
I keep my arm at the small of his back as the music shifts, my hand splayed over the line of his spine. He lets me guide him, his head tipped slightly down, hair brushing my collarbone. For a moment, we just move together, the only rhythm the slow, unhurried thump of my heart.
I shift my grip, running my palm up his back, along the knotted muscle there. He breathes in, shallow, and I can feel his muscles tense underneath me. The way he shivers is so genuine I have to restrain myself from sinking my teeth into the curve of his neck.
Instead, I trail my hand to his shoulder, squeeze. He looks up at me, eyes wet, pupils wide as coins.
He’s trembling, not with fear, but with anticipation. I feel the vibration in him, and in response, my own body tightens. The world outside the penthouse is gone. All that’s left is my cock straining against my pants, the flush on his cheeks and the burning need to devour him.
I want to take him apart, piece by piece, but not here, not in the cold center of the room.
Stepping back, I reach for the top button of his jacket. He tenses, but doesn’t stop me.
“You can say no,” I remind him, just in case.
He shakes his head, voice rough. “I don’t want to.”
I nod, then slide the jacket off his shoulders. The lining catches at his wrists, so I tug, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric fall in a heap behind him. His shirt is cheap cotton, onebutton already loose. I take the liberty of finishing the job, popping each one open until I see the flush creep down his chest.
He shivers again, bare skin goose bumped in the cool air. I lay a hand flat over his sternum, feeling his heart slam against my palm. He’s got a splattering of hair across his chest, down a surprisingly sculpted abdomen and leading down into a V before disappearing in his pants.
“Still good?” I say, softer this time.
He looks at me, desperate, and I know the answer before he says it. “Yes. Please.”
It’s the ‘please’ that does something ugly to my composure. I want to see what other noises he’ll make if I push just a little further. Grabbing my jacket, I slip it off and throw it on the couch before unbuttoning a few buttons on my shirt.
Moving towards him, I slip my fingers under his open shirt’s collar, splay them over his collar bone, and watch as the sensation chases itself down his arms. He keeps his hands at his sides, knuckles white, like he’s afraid to touch me back. I decide to fix that.
I grab his wrist, bring his hand to my chest, hold it there.
He inhales, hard. “Your heart is—”
“Fast,” I finish, and smile. “You’re doing that to me.”
He doesn’t reply. He just presses his hand against me, tentative, then with more confidence. His palm is warm through my shirt, and I can feel the need in him, unpolished and bright.
I reach down and undo his belt, slow, giving him every opportunity to bolt. He just stares, eyes glazed, skin burning with embarrassment and want.
The zipper is next, then the careful slide of fabric down his hips. Underneath, his briefs are laughably innocent—gray, thin, barely holding him in. I palm his cock through the cotton, and he gasps, knees threatening to buckle.
“Sit,” I order, and he does.
He perches on the edge of the couch, legs awkward, arms crossed over his chest as if trying to hide the sudden exposure. I kneel in front of him, push his knees apart, and let my hands drift over the inside of his thighs.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and it’s not a lie.
He laughs, small and disbelieving. “No one’s ever said that.”
I run my tongue up the line of his thigh, feel him shudder. “Then no one’s been paying attention.”
