A rough little laugh leaves him.
His hand shifts to my chin, tilting it up. “Open for me.”
I do.
He brushes his thumb over my bottom lip first, then guides the head of his cock to my mouth. “Start slow,” he says. “Just this.”
I take him in carefully, only the tip, and the sound he makes is low and immediate.
“That’s it.” His fingers tighten in my hair. “Use your tongue.”
I do, clumsy and curious and very aware of the way his whole body reacts to the smallest thing. The taste of him hits my tongue, familiar now in a way that sends heat curling low in my stomach.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Again.”
I take a little more this time. His head tips back against the seat with a breath that sounds dragged out of him.
“Fuck.”
I pull back just enough to breathe, and his heated gaze drops to my mouth.
“Take what feels comfortable,” he says, voice rough. “Use your hand on the rest.”
I wrap my fingers around what I can’t fit and try again, slower now, finding a rhythm between my mouth and my hand. Luca watches me with a look that makes my skin feel too tight all over again.
“There you go,” he growls. “Just like that.”
I take him deeper, greedy for the sound it drags out of him, and the moment I push too far my throat spasms around him in a gag.
Luca’s whole body locks. The look he gives me is pure feral heat for one sharp, dangerous second. Then he’s guiding me back with a hand at my jaw, breathing hard enough to shake.
“Easy, baby,” he says, voice shredded around the edges. “You don’t have to take more than you want.”
I pull back, cheeks burning, but he tips my chin up again.
“You’re doing good, Nat.”
The praise lands low and hot in my core.
He guides me from there with small adjustments, a murmur to slow down, a tilt of my chin, a helpless sound when I get it right. It should feel awkward. It doesn’t. Not with the way he looks at me, and not with the effort it’s costing him not to take over.
I start paying attention to the little things. The way his stomach tightens under my palm. The way his breathing changes when I hollow my cheeks. The way his fingers spread against the back of my head when I find something he likes.
“That,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Don’t stop.”
Satisfaction sparks hot and bright inside me.
I keep going, slower now, enjoying the way each drag of my mouth strips a little more of that impossible composure off him. He still isn’t pushing. Still isn’t taking over. But the strain of holding back is right there in every rough breath.
His head drops back against the leather. “Fuck.”
Barely a whisper. Still enough to make me ache.
Then he looks down at me again, and whatever he sees on my face makes something in him snap taut. His hand tightens in my hair, not forcing, just holding on. His other hand catches my chin, thumb pressing into the soft skin there until I look up at him fully.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I’m done.”
I smile around him.
