I close my eyes and breathe, trying to focus, but he does something with his tongue that wipes every other thought from my brain. I gasp, the noise too loud in the cold, silent room. I feel the smile in the way he pulls off just enough to tease, the tip of his tongue flicking across the slit, then back down to the base.
My hands move without my say-so, fisting in the sheets, then reaching for his head. I lace my fingers into the soft, honey-blonde mess, wanting to touch, to anchor myself in the reality of it. He lets me, for a second, then moves one hand from my hip to the headboard, pinning my wrist above my head.
His grip is steel. Not cruel, not even tight. Just absolute. I could fight it, but we both know I won’t.
He looks up at me, blue eyes so sharp it’s like being cut. He doesn’t blink. He keeps eye contact as he lowers his mouth, swallowing me to the root.
My spine bows off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. I try to say his name but all that comes out is a stuttered, helpless groan.
He lets me go, slow, every inch a friction burn, until he’s just got the tip between his lips. He licks a drop of precum off the slit, then smiles with his mouth full.
I want to touch him. I want to do something, anything, but he’s got both my wrists now, crossed and pinned over my head against the pillow.
He comes up for air, mouth slick, lips red. His voice is low, not even a whisper. “This morning is about you surrendering control.”
The words go straight to my cock, to the tight, desperate place inside my chest. I nod, but it’s not enough for him.
“Say it,” he commands, and this time his hand tightens just enough that I can’t pretend it’s not a threat.
I swallow, eyes locked on his. “I surrender, Sir,” I croak, voice cracked and breathless.
He makes a satisfied noise, then bends to his work. He drags his tongue up the underside, pays special attention to the spot just beneath the head, then takes me in again, deeper this time.
I can feel my pulse everywhere, even in my fingertips, trapped as they are. My body is on fire. I can’t stop shaking. Every time I get close, he backs off, uses his free hand to squeeze the base, to edge me just enough that I don’t go over.
It’s torture. It’s perfect.
At some point, my legs are over his shoulders. I don’t know how he managed it, but he’s got my knees bent up, thighs framing his face. He slides a hand up the inside of my leg, then down to my balls, rolling them gently in his palm. I whimper, so far gone I barely recognize my own voice.
He lets my wrists go, but only because he knows I won’t fight. He swaps his hands, one cradling my jaw, the other working the length of me with slow, firm strokes while his mouth works the head.
I look down and see him—see the mess he’s made of me, see the hunger in his eyes, see the way his hair falls in his face. He looks back, never once breaking contact. It’s not a request, it’s a demand:Watch me ruin you.
My hands float down, boneless. I want to touch him, but he’s made it clear—this is not my show. So I dig my nails into my own thighs, trying to keep from losing it.
He speeds up, bobbing faster, using his hand in tandem, the pressure and friction building until I can’t stand it. I gasp, “Briar, fuck, I—”
He moans around my cock, the vibration pushing me over the edge. I come hard, hips jerking up, the orgasm ripping through me so violent I see stars. He doesn’t pull away. He takes every drop, milks me with his mouth and his hand until I’m shaking, twitching, ruined.
He lets me go with a final, wet pop. He crawls up the bed, covers me with his body, and kisses me slow, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
I’m wrecked.Utterly.
He cages me in with his arms, his weight pinning me to the mattress. He’s hard, pressed up against my hip, but he doesn’t ask for anything in return.
He brushes the hair off my forehead, looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. Then he says, “Good boy.”
It should piss me off, but instead it lights up every nerve. The way this man has implanted himself into my very bones has me fucked up. I shiver, sweat cooling on my skin, heart pounding out a code I’ve never learned to decipher.
For a while, we just breathe. My head spins, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the way he’s claimed me, not as property, but as someone who will take what he gives.
Eventually, he rolls onto his back, pulls me with him so my head rests on his chest. His heart is a steady hammer, slower than mine but just as sure.
He drags his fingers up and down my spine, over my bones, my muscles, goosebumps breaking out everywhere he touches.
“You still awake?” he asks, a smile in his voice.
“Barely,” I say.
