I made that happen.
"Ruby." His voice is wrecked.
"You need help with that," I say, reaching for his belt.
His hand catches my wrist, not hard, just surprised. "What are you—"
"You're hard," I say simply, meeting his eyes. "I can see it. I want to help."
"Ruby, we're at your place of—"
"The door's locked," I remind him. "You made sure of that." I hold his gaze. "You're hard because of me. Aren't you…"
It's not really a question, but he answers anyway, his free hand dropping to grip himself through the denim.
"Fucking hard because of you," he says, low and rough. "Since last night. All goddamn night."
I bite my lower lip so hard I nearly break the skin.
He did that. He stood in front of me and admitted that without embarrassment, without making me feel like my body was something to tolerate rather than want. He gripped himself and said *because of you* like it was just the obvious truth and he saw no reason to dress it up.
I sink to my knees before I fully decide to, and something flickers across his face. Could be surprise, want, something that might be reverence if that isn't too dramatic a word for a break room in a casino.
"Ruby—"
"Let me." I look up at him from the floor, and whatever he sees in my face makes the argument die in his throat. "Let me make you feel good."
The smirk that crosses his lips is devastating. "No fucking way I'm stopping you."
He reaches down and takes his own belt off, the leather sliding free with a soft hiss, and drops it onto the desk behind me. I lean forward and press my lips to the outline of his cock through the denim.
He inhales sharply.
I do it again, slower, tracing the shape of him with my mouth, feeling him get harder and thicker with every pass. The fabric is warm, stretched to capacity, and I can feel him straining against it, and it's the most powerful I've felt in years.
I pop the button. Lower the zipper. Hook my fingers into both denim and briefs together and pull them down enough.
His cock springs free and nearly catches my chin, and I lean back just slightly, just enough to see it properly.
Oh!
He's thick. Genuinely, impressively thick, the kind of thick where I find myself doing involuntary mental geometry and coming up with optimistic conclusions. Long too, but it's the thickness that makes my mouth water.
For him I'll try everything. I decide that right now, on my knees on a break room floor.
I wrap my tongue around the head first, tasting the salt of him, feeling the velvet heat of his skin. He grips the edge of the desk behind me, knuckles going white.
"Your lips," he grits out. "Feel so fucking good around my cock."
I've always preferred action to words.
I slide my lips down, taking him deeper, working my jaw around his thickness, going as far as I can and then going further anyway because I refuse to be defeated by geometry. He hits the back of my throat and I gag. Saliva spilling from the corners of my mouth, eyes watering, but I don't stop. I hold there for a moment, then pull back, then go again.
My hand finds his balls, cupping them, rolling them gently, and he makes a sound that rewires something fundamental in my brain. Low and broken and completely unguarded. This enormous, intimidating man is trembling. For me.
His legs shake against my hands as I work him, setting a rhythm—deep, then shallow, then deep again, using my tongue on the upstroke, my hand twisting slightly at the base because I can't fit enough of him in my mouth to cover everything, and I want to cover everything.
He doesn't grab my head, doesn't push, doesn't control the pace. He just grips the desk and takes what I give him and sounds absolutely wrecked by every second of it.
