He went down slow on the first stroke, taking his time, letting me feel every inch of heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue along the underside, and I gripped the table edge with both hands and breathed through my nose and tried to remember how to function. He pulled back. Did it again, deeper this time, and I felt the back of his throat and his groan vibrated all the way to the root of me.
My cock was still thickening. Even now. Even fully hard I felt myself getting heavier in his mouth, swelling further against his tongue, and the sounds he was making were unconscious and hungry and doing things to me I had no framework for.
He pulled off to breathe and looked up at me with wet lips and pupils blown wide and his hand working me in a slow twist that was making coherent thought genuinely unavailable.
“You just keep getting bigger,” he said, rough and wondering. “Fuck, how?—”
“Troy.” His name came out with nothing attached to it. Just need.
He went back down. Deeper this time, working himself further, taking more, and I felt him stretch around me and the sounds were wet and open and the back of his throat workedagainst the head of me and my hand moved into his hair before I'd decided anything.
Tightened.
Troy made a sound of low approval that I felt everywhere.
That was it. Whatever patience I'd been holding onto, whatever this-is-wrong, this-is-my-stepson internal voice had been running underneath all of this, it went quiet. Completely. Replaced by something more animal and immediate and impossible to argue with.
I pushed down.
He took it. All of it. My hand in his hair pushing him to the base while my hips rolled forward off the table's edge, and the wet choked sound he made around me sent a pulse of heat through my entire body.
“Hhnn, fuck—” My own voice, barely recognizable.
I pulled him back. Pushed him down again. Set a rhythm that had nothing gentle about it, his head moving in my grip, his hands braced against my thighs, and the sounds filling my kitchen were obscene. Wet and messy and loud. His throat working around me each time I pushed deep, the slick heat of him pulling back on every stroke.
Saliva was everywhere. Running down the shaft, dripping onto his lips when I pulled back far enough, and I looked down and the sight of it was something I didn't have words for. Troy on his knees between my thighs with his face wet and his mouth dark and swollen and his eyes watering slightly at the corners and every shred of careful armor he'd ever worn completely destroyed.
I spit on my cock. Watched it mix with everything already there.
Troy made a sound that wasn't a word and opened wider.
I gripped his jaw with my free hand, tilted his face up, and spit directly on his lips. He took it. Let it run. His tongue cameout and he looked up at me while it dripped down his chin and the expression on his face was the most undone thing I'd ever seen on another human being.
“There,” he said, hoarse. “That's it. Give it to me.”
I pushed him back down.
He went. No resistance, no hesitation, just took the push and opened his throat around me and the sound he made was choked and grateful simultaneously, hands braced against my thighs, knuckles white with the effort of staying still and letting me use him.
I pulled him back by the hair and thrust forward and the wet obscene sounds of it filled the kitchen and bounced off every surface. His lips were swollen dark. His chin was slick with saliva and pre-come and the mess of everything we'd done and he looked completely destroyed and his eyes were still on mine and I couldn't look away from them.
“Taking it so well,” I heard myself say.
Troy's eyes went darker. He pressed forward into the thrust, taking me deeper than I'd pushed, and the sound that came out of him around my cock was muffled and desperate and sent heat crashing down my spine.
I gripped his jaw with both hands. Tilted his face up. Watched his throat work around me from this angle and the visual nearly undid me entirely, the thick stretch of his lips, the tears tracking from the corners of his eyes from the depth of it, none of it pain, all of it want.
I pulled back enough to let him breathe.
He gasped. Mouth open, chest heaving, saliva strung between his lips and the head of my cock catching the kitchen light, and his eyes were absolutely wrecked and completely certain at the same time.
“Again,” he said, voice barely there. “Don't stop.”
I pushed back in. Felt the back of his throat and kept going, felt him swallow around me, felt his hands grip my thighs hard enough to bruise and I didn't care about that, drove forward twice more until he was making continuous sounds that weren't words, just noise, just desperate wet noise that was the most honest thing I'd heard from him since he'd walked back through my door.
I spit down onto him. Watched it land on his cheek and run. He turned his face into it like it was something precious.
Something in me snapped clean through.
