He pulled back until just the head was in his mouth and sucked hard while his fingers worked that spot in tight circles, and my hand fisted in his hair and my hips drove forward and he took it, all of it, let me push deeper into his throat while his fingers kept their rhythm inside me.
Then he pulled off completely, fingers withdrawing at the same time, and before I'd registered the loss of both he was on his feet and his hands were on me.
He walked me backward to the bed. Not gently. Both palms flat on my chest, pushing with intent, and the backs of my knees hit the mattress and I went down and he followed, climbing over me, and for a second I thought he was taking over entirely. But he just looked at me from above, chest heaving, mouth still wet from what he'd been doing with it, chin shining with spit and pre-come, and then he rolled off and dropped onto his back beside me.
Laid his arms out. Looked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling hard.
“Your turn,” he said.
I looked at him. The lean length of him stretched out across the sheets, chest rising and falling, cock standing up flushed and hard and leaking a steady bead at the tip that caught the light and slid down the shaft. Six months between visits and every time I forgot what he looked like like this and then I remembered all at once and it hit me like a punch to the chest.
I got up onto my knees and swung over him, straddling his thighs, and put both hands flat on his chest.
He tucked both arms behind his head and watched me with half-lidded eyes. Completely open. Offering himself up with the particular confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was giving access to and knew I wanted it.
I started at his neck. Dragged my mouth up the column of his throat, teeth scraping, felt his pulse jumping under my lips faster than his expression was letting on. His jaw was rough with two days of growth and I ran my mouth along it, kissed the corner of his lips, pulled back before he could deepen it. He made a low frustrated sound that I filed away for later.
“Patience,” I said.
“You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” I bit his earlobe and felt the full-body shiver that moved through him, rippling down his chest to his stomach.
I worked my way down. He was built differently to me, leaner, the muscle long and flat rather than thick, and I traced every line of it with my palms while my mouth moved lower, cataloging the places that made his breathing change.
Then I moved to his arm and lifted it. His eyes tracked me as I did it, curious, and then my mouth dropped into the hollow of his armpit and he made a sound that was involuntary and genuine and very loud for this hour of the night.
“Fuck, Troy?—”
“Shut up,” I said into the hair there, muffled, and pressed my tongue flat against the muscle and felt him twitch beneath me. He smelled like skin and sweat and cologne worn down to base notes, just him underneath it all, the specific scent I associated with hotel rooms and the particular kind of sex that burned things off rather than built them up. I breathed it in, licked deeper, felt his arm curl slightly, instinctive, and bit the muscle at the inside of his raised arm until he made another sound that had no words in it, just raw reaction.
His nipples were already tight, dark and peaked. I closed my mouth over the left one and sucked and his hips rolled upward under me, his cock pressing against the back of my thigh, leaving a wet streak of pre-come on my skin.
“Yeah,” he said, low and rough. “Yeah, like that.”
I bit down instead, hard enough to make it hurt.
“Fuck—”
I did it to the right one too, then went back to the left, alternating, taking my time, while his breathing lost whatever steadiness it had started with. His hands came out from behind his head and landed in my hair and I grabbed his wrists and pressed them back to the mattress above him, pinning them there.
“Hands down,” I said.
A pause. Two full seconds of him deciding whether to comply, whether to fight me on it or give in.
He put them back behind his head.
I moved lower and dragged my mouth down his stomach, tonguing the lines of muscle there, following the trail of dark hair southward. I pressed my lips to his hip bone, bit it hard, felt him exhale sharply through his teeth. Then I dipped my head and ran my tongue through the crease where his thigh met his groin and he pulled in a breath through his teeth that hissed out between them.
I looked up at him.
He was staring back down at me with his jaw set and his chest flushed and his cock leaking steadily against his stomach, a slow slide of pre-come pooling at the tip and running down the shaft in a thick trail.
I reached up. Swiped my thumb through it, collected the whole bead of it in one stroke.
His eyes tracked my hand as I brought it to my mouth. I kept eye contact while I licked it off my thumb, tasted the salt-bitter heat of him, watched his expression do a complicated and entirely honest thing that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with want.
“Give me more,” I said.
