I reached up and cupped the back of his neck, pulling him down until our foreheads touched. “What do you want?”
“Let me suck your cock.” His voice was rough, already wrecked. “Please. Last night I got to feel you inside me, but I want to taste you properly. Want to worship that fucking monster between your legs.”
Heat shot straight to my groin. The word—monster—made something primal stir in my chest.
“You want to worship it?” My voice had dropped lower, gone rougher.
“Fuck yes.” His hands slid down my chest to my belt. “You have no idea how much I've been thinking about it. About getting on my knees for you. About feeling you stretch my throat the way you stretched my ass.”
I groaned and let my head fall back against the chair. “The filthy fucking mouth on you.”
“You love it.” His fingers were working my belt open now, popping the button on my jeans. “You love that I can't stop thinking about your cock. That I walked around all day today remembering how deep you were inside me. How full you made me feel.”
“Fuck.” My hands gripped the arms of the chair as he pulled down my zipper. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Not yet.” He tugged my jeans and boxer briefs down, and I lifted my hips to help him. My cock sprang free, already half-hard just from his words, and I watched his eyes go dark with pure hunger.
He wrapped one hand around the base, and his fingers didn't quite meet. The sight of his hand dwarfed by my girth made my cock pulse in his grip.
“So fucking thick,” he breathed, stroking me slowly. “I still can't believe you fit inside me.”
“You took every inch.” I was getting harder with each stroke of his hand. “Took it so well. Made for my cock.”
“Yeah.” He licked his lips, eyes fixated on watching himself stroke me. “Made to take this monster. Made to be yours.”
The possessive claim in those words made something dark and primal surge in my chest. “That's right. You're mine.”
“Yours,” he agreed, and then he dropped to his knees between my legs.
The sight of him there—on his knees, looking up at me with those dark eyes while his hand worked my cock—was almost enough to make me come right then.
“Look at how big you are,” he said, almost reverent. “Fuck, Grant, you're huge. I can barely get my hand around you.”
“You managed last night.”
“Barely.” He leaned forward and dragged his tongue up the underside of my cock, root to tip, and I nearly came out of the chair. “Split me open. Made me feel it every time I sat down today.”
My hands flew to his hair, fisting in the soft strands. “Did you like it? Walking around sore? Knowing it was from me?”
“Loved it.” He circled the head with his tongue, lapping up the precome that was already leaking. “Loved knowing you'd marked me.”
“Fuck, Jace?—”
“Let me taste you properly.” He looked up at me, and there was something desperate in his eyes. “Please, Coach. I need it.”
The title in his mouth—breathy and needy—made my cock throb against his lips.
“Then open up,” I ordered, voice gone rough and commanding. “Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”
He moaned and took me into his mouth, and the wet heat was overwhelming. But he could only take about half of me before he had to pull back, jaw already aching from the stretch.
“Too much?” I asked, even though my control was hanging by a thread.
“No.” He worked his jaw, determined. “Just—fuck, you're so thick. Give me a second.”
I watched him breathe, watched him prepare himself, and the submission in it—the way he was so desperate to please me, to take what I gave him—made something possessive and dark unfurl in my chest.
“Try again,” I said. “Relax your jaw. Let me in.”
