"Yeah."
"Why?"
A pause. The kind of pause that on anyone else would be hesitation and on Declan is just the space before something lands.
"Because you're mine," he says. "And I'm done pretending I don't know it."
I close my eyes. Open them. My reflection in the dark monitor, still in the ring light, still in the filter, and his voice in my ear sayingyou're minelike it's weather.
"That's the most romantic thing you've ever done," I say. My whole body starts to warm.
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. We both know he doesn't.
"Come over," he says.
***
He's at the door when I get there.
I get through the door and he cups my face in both hands and kisses me and the drive over and the call and the donation and the text all compress into this one point of contact, his mouth on mine, and I kiss him back with the energy of a woman who has been thinking about this for two hours while pretending to be a professional gamer.
We make it to his bedroom. Barely. His hands pulling my jacket off in the hallway, my shirt somewhere near the door, and then we're in and I do something I haven't done before.
I push him.
Both hands flat on his chest, and he goes back, surprised. He lands on the edge of the bed and I follow him. I climb on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, and I take his face in my hands and I kiss him and he makes a sound against my mouth that I feel in my whole body.
This is new. I've been reactive, responsive, the one being directed. Tonight I want to direct. Tonight I want to see what he looks like from above with his dark eyes looking up at me.
I pull my bra off. I reach down between us and get my hand on his cock through his pants and he's hard, completely hard, and the sound he makes when I grip him is gratifying enough that I file it permanently.
I get his pants off. Mine. I'm straddling him in nothing and he's looking up at me and his hands come to my hips and I feel his cock against me, the length of it pressed between us, and I rock my hips forward once, sliding my wetness along the underside of his shaft, and watch his jaw clench.
"Billie."
"My turn," I say.
I reach between us. Get him positioned. Sink down onto his cock in one slow slide and the sound I make is not subtle and I don't care. He fills me completely and the angle is different from on top, deeper somehow, and I grip his shoulders and start to move.
This is what I wanted. Him beneath me, his hands on my hips, his face tipped up toward mine. The silver at his temples in the lamplight where I can see it. I set my own pace for the first time and it's faster than he'd choose, harder, and his fingers dig into my hips but he lets me have it. For about thirty seconds.
Then something changes.
I'm riding him and I'm getting close and I lean down and say against his ear, "I think about you every time I'm on stream now, every time the donation feed scrolls, I think about, ah!"
His hand comes up and wraps around my throat.
Not squeezing. Not hurting. Just there. His palm against the front of my throat, his thumb on my pulse, and the pressure is nothing, barely a touch, but theintentof it stops me mid-sentence. His eyes on mine are dark and flat and totally focused and there is nothing in them that looks like the patient, controlled man I've been sleeping with for the past week.
"Stop," he says.
I stop moving. My heart is hammering under his thumb.
He sits up with me still on his cock, one arm around my waist, his hand still on my throat, and he brings his face close to mine. I can see every line around his eyes. The gray in his stubble. The absolute stillness of a man who is about to say something he means.
"You don't think about me on stream," he says. Low. Quiet. "You don't think about anyone on stream. When you're live, you're BrattyBaby. You perform for them. You give them the version."
His thumb moves against my pulse. I can feel my own heartbeat against it.
