Just hooked a finger into the fabric and pulled it carefully to one side, exposing me, and the sharp breath he drew in through his nose was loud enough that I heard it clearly.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said. Barely a word. Just air shaped into meaning.
He wrapped one hand around the base of me with the lace still gathered to the side, black fabric a stark contrast against my skin, and just looked for a moment. Like he was making a decision or saying a prayer or both.
Then he opened his mouth and took me in.
The sound that tore out of me before I could catch it was embarrassingly wrecked. My head hit the wall behind me and my hand dropped to his hair, not pushing, just needing somewhere to be. He took his time. Not the efficient enthusiasmfrom before but a slower pace that felt like it was for him as much as for me, like he was doing exactly what he wanted and happening to take me apart in the process.
His tongue worked the underside of my cock, tracing up and back, and when he pulled off to mouth at the head I heard myself make a sound that was completely undone.
“You like that?” he asked. His voice was destroyed. He looked up at me with dark eyes and swollen lips. “Like me on my knees for you?”
“Yeah.” The word came out strangled. “Don't fucking stop.”
He hummed in satisfaction and the vibration traveled through his lips and into me like a current. His free hand came up to press flat against my stomach like he wanted to feel the way I was shaking.
He sank deeper. Swallowed around me and I bit down on my own fist to keep from making more noise than I already was, thighs going rigid, hips fighting the urge to push forward. He worked me with his throat, taking me all the way down until his nose pressed against my pelvis and the lace was rough against his chin.
When he pulled off his lips were red and wet.
“Get on the desk,” he said. “Face down. Now.”
He didn't give me time to move on my own. Just stood and turned me himself, hands firm on my shoulders, walked me two steps toward the desk and then changed his mind. Pressed me face-first into the wall instead. One forearm across my upper back. Not cruel. Just decided.
“Here,” he said against my ear. “Stay.”
He dropped to his knees behind me.
I heard them hit the floor. Felt his hands spread across my ass through the lace, squeezing once with clear appreciation, and then his thumbs found the fabric and pulled it aside the sameway he had before. Careful. Like it mattered to him that the lace stayed intact.
The first touch of his mouth made me slam both palms flat against the wall and curse so loud it echoed.
He didn't tease. Didn't work up to it. Just buried his face in and ate me out like he'd been starving for it, tongue pressing in slow devastating circles while his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me exactly where he wanted me. The sound he made against me was hungry in a way that short-circuited thought entirely, low and greedy, like he'd been wanting this since the moment I'd walked onto his floor.
My forehead hit the wall. My hips pushed back on pure reflex and he let them, encouraged it, tilting the angle until I was grinding against his mouth and making sounds I'd be embarrassed about later.
He worked me open with his tongue, thorough and relentless, and every time I got close to forming a coherent thought he'd change the pressure or the rhythm and pull me back under. My cock hung hard and untouched and I was leaking against the wall, thighs shaking with the effort of staying upright.
“Please.” The word fell out of me broken and desperate. “Dan, please.”
He heard it. Pulled back. I felt him stand, heard the click of a desk drawer, heard the cap of the lube snap open. One slick hand wrapped around himself and then his fingers were back, two of them pressing in slow where his mouth had been, spreading me, working me open, making sure I could take him.
“Still good?” he said against my shoulder. Low and rough and barely holding together.
“Yes.” The word came out destroyed. “Yes, come on, just do it.”
He pressed the head of his cock against me and I felt the pressure, felt the stretch beginning, and then he pushed in with one long slow thrust that didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt.
The sound I made wasn't language. Just noise shaped like desperation and relief and too much all at once. My mouth fell open against the wall as he seated himself fully and stopped. Breathing hard. Both of us were.
His lips found the back of my neck and stayed there. “You have no idea how good you feel.”
He started to move.
Short rolls of his hips at first, testing, feeling out the angle while his hand gripped the lace at my hip like an anchor. My palms were still flat against the wall and I pressed harder into it, needing the resistance, needing solid ground while everything else came apart.
The stretch was perfect. The drag of him pulling out and pushing back in hit a place inside me that made my vision go white at the edges. I heard myself making sounds I didn't recognize, low and wrecked and continuous.
