“Not yet.” His voice was rough. “I want to look at you first.”
He stood at the foot of the bed, just looking at me, and I felt exposed in the best possible way. His eyes traveled over every inch of me—my face, my chest, my cock, the way my legs were spread, the way I was already trembling with need.
“So fucking beautiful,” he said quietly. “Can't believe you're mine. Can't believe I get to have this.”
“You do. You have me. All of me.” I spread my legs wider, showing him everything. “Please, Grant. Stop teasing.”
“I'm not teasing. I'm savoring.” But he climbed back onto the bed, settling between my legs, and his hands were on me again—rough and possessive and perfect.
He kissed his way down my chest, pausing to bite at my nipples until they were hard and oversensitive. Every touch made me gasp, made my cock leak more, made me squirm beneath him.
“Stay still,” he ordered, and there was the coach voice again. The one that made my cock throb and my brain go fuzzy. “Let me take my time with you.”
“Can't. Need you too much.”
“You can.” His mouth moved lower, tongue tracing the lines of my abs, teeth scraping over my hip bone. “You're going to stay still and let me worship this body. Let me taste every inch of you.”
“Fuck, Grant?—”
“That's Daddy to you right now.” He bit down on my inner thigh, hard enough to make me yelp. “Say it.”
“Daddy. Fuck, Daddy, please?—”
“Better.” He soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved higher, his breath hot against my cock. “Now be a good boy and stay still.”
I tried. I really did. But when his mouth closed around my cock, taking me deep in one smooth motion, I couldn't help but arch up, hands flying to his hair.
He pulled off immediately. “What did I say?”
“Stay still. I'm sorry, I just?—”
“Hands above your head. Now.”
I moved my hands above my head, gripping the headboard, and he made an approving sound.
“Good boy. Keep them there. If you move them, I stop. Understood?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good.” He took me back into his mouth, and this time I forced myself to stay still, to keep my hands on the headboard even though every instinct was screaming at me to touch him, to pull him closer, to fuck up into his mouth.
He worked me over slowly, methodically, his tongue tracing patterns along my shaft, his lips tight around the head. Every time I got close, he backed off, kept me right on the edge but never let me fall over.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, Daddy, I need to come.”
“Not yet.” He released my cock and moved lower, his tongue tracing the seam of my balls, then lower still. “Not until I say so.”
His tongue pressed against my hole, and I nearly came right then. My hands gripped the headboard so hard I thought it might break, and I was making sounds I didn't recognize—high and desperate and completely wrecked.
“That's it,” he murmured against me. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
He ate me out like he had all the time in the world, tongue circling my rim, pressing inside, finding all the spots that made me shake. I was trembling, gasping, begging incoherently for more, for his cock, for anything.
“Please, Daddy. Please fuck me. Need your cock. Need you inside me. Please?—”
He pulled back, and I heard the sound of the lube bottle—we'd unpacked that first too, priorities—and then his fingers were pressing inside me. One, then two, then three.
“So tight,” he muttered. “Even after all the times I've fucked you, you're still so tight.”
