I don't. The detention center took care of that years ago.
"This doesn't mean anything," he says against my mouth.
"Sure it doesn't."
"I'm using you."
"Okay."
"You're an asset. A tool. This is just—"
"Jagger." I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. "Shut the fuck up."
He stares at me. For one second, two, three, and then his mouth crashes into mine again, harder than before.
His hand slides down my chest, my stomach, and palms my cock through the thin cotton of the pants he gave me. I jerk against him, a moan escaping before I can bite it back. He swallows the sound, tongue pushing into my mouth, and starts stroking me with rough, deliberate pressure.
The friction is almost too much through the fabric. Almost not enough. I can't decide if I want him to slow down or speed up, so I just hold on and let him set the pace.
"You want this," he says. Not a question.
"Yes." The word comes out wrecked. "Fuck. Yes."
"You shouldn't."
"Probably not. Don't care."
He squeezes, just this side of painful, and I arch into his grip like I'm trying to crawl inside his skin. Three years since anyone touched me with anything other than clinical detachment or casual cruelty. Three years of my body forgetting what it felt like to want something, to need something, to burn for anything other than survival.
Now I'm burning. Jagger lit a match somewhere in my chest and I'm going up in flames.
His thumb finds the head of my cock, circles it through the dampening cotton, and my vision whites out at the edges. My hips stutter forward, chasing the sensation, and he makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
"Look at you," he murmurs against my mouth. "Coming apart already."
"Fuck you."
"Maybe later."
The casual promise sends another spike of heat through me. I grab the back of his neck and kiss him harder, tasting blood from my bitten lip, tasting coffee and something darker underneath. He responds by shoving his hand inside my waistband,finally getting skin on skin, and the first touch of his palm against my bare cock makes me cry out loud enough to echo off the kitchen walls.
His free hand grabs the back of my neck, holding me still while he works my cock. The rhythm is brutal, almost punishing, like he's angry at me for making him feel this. Like he's trying to get me off fast and hard so he can pretend it didn't mean anything.
It works.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, ripping a sound out of my throat that I'll be embarrassed about later. My whole body seizes, hips bucking, hands fisting in his shirt hard enough to tear the fabric. He keeps stroking me through it, milking every last shudder, until I'm gasping and oversensitive and pretty sure I've forgotten how to breathe.
Then he steps back.
His hand is wet with my cum. His lips are swollen, red from kissing. His hair is beautifully wrecked from where I grabbed it without even realizing.
He looks ruined.
He looks scared as shit.
"That shouldn't have happened," he says.
I'm still trying to remember how words work. "Too late."
