He breaks the kiss only to pull his own shirt off. For a second, I just stare at him, he’s got a runner’s body, all sharp edges and lean muscle, a tattoo in Chinese characters on his left shoulder blade.
I wonder if he knows what it actually means.
He pushes me back onto the couch, straddles my lap.
His hands stay on my face this time, fingers in my hair, thumbs stroking along my jaw.
He tastes like whiskey and some expensive cologne, but underneath it, there’s a salt tang, sweat or adrenaline or both.
His hips grind into mine, and I’m hard, so hard I actually gasp when he shifts his weight. He laughs, a low, throaty sound, and slides his hand down to cup me through my jeans.
“You’re easy,” he murmurs, not unkindly. “I like that.”
I want to say something, but my tongue is stuck. He unbuttons my jeans, slides them down with a practiced hand, and then kneels on the floor in front of me.
He looks up, eyes locked on mine, dark and unreadable as wet asphalt, as he pulls my boxers down with a practiced flick of his wrists.
The elastic catches briefly, then gives way. The cool air hits my exposed skin, and my cock springs free, already flushed and straining upward.
For a second, I can't breathe, my lungs frozen mid-inhale, throat tight with something between desire and panic.
Then he takes me in his mouth, slow at first, his lips cool and firm as they stretch around me.
His tongue swirls, deliberate, practiced circles that trace every ridge and vein, while his right hand grips the base with calculated pressure.
He sucks just hard enough to hollow his cheeks and make my hips jump involuntarily against the leather couch that squeaks beneath my sweat-dampened skin.
The sensation is electric, heat and pressure and the wet slick of his tongue.
He’s good at this, really good but what gets me isn’t the skill, it’s the way he never looks away, keeps his gaze locked on me the entire time.
It’s like he’s daring me to look away first.
I brace my hands on the couch, knuckles white, try to keep from making any noise, but it’s useless.
He goes deep, throat opening around me until I feel the back of it flutter, then pulls off with an obscene wet sound, his hand replacing his mouth with a twist that makes my vision blur at the edges.
Then he's back down again, lips stretched taut and glistening, cheeks hollowed into shadows, never breaking the metronome rhythm, never surrendering that calculated control that makes this feel more like a demonstration than desire.
I come faster than I want to, embarrassingly fast, my vision going white at the edges as my hips buck involuntarily against the leather.
My fingers dig into the cushions, knuckles blanched with effort.
He doesn't flinch, just takes it all, throat working methodically, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand in one practiced motion.
He sits back on his heels, head tilted slightly, watching me with clinical interest as I struggle to catch my breath, chest heaving, skin prickling with cooling sweat.
It was all over in a flash.
“Good?” he says, and there’s that smile again.
I nod, still dizzy, and he climbs back onto the couch, sits next to me, arm around my shoulders.
He kisses me again, softer now, but it’s not comfort, it’s closure. A clean finish.
He stands, stretches, and says, “Want a shower?” like he’s offering dessert.
“Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t.
