“Right there,” he said, suddenly sharp, head coming up off the pillow. “Right there, don't move, just?—”
I pressed harder into that spot and his arms buckled.
“Hhnn—god—Declan?—”
I leaned down and bit the lace band at the top of his stocking where it met his bare thigh and he made a sound that was beyond words entirely. My fingers kept their rhythm, hard and deliberate now, and I turned my face into the back of his thigh and breathed him in again while he fell apart under my hands in the dark.
My fingers kept their rhythm, hard and deliberate now, and I turned my face into the back of his thigh and breathed him in again while he fell apart under my hands in the dark.
Then I stopped being careful about it.
The rhythm changed. Faster. Working him with two fingers in tight rapid strokes against that spot, the same relentless precision I'd learned from years of reading bodies, of knowing exactly where pressure becomes undoing, and Troy's spine went rigid and his hips drove back against my hand and the soundspouring out of him were continuous and formless and loud enough that the neighbors were going to have opinions.
“Hh—hh—Declan—don't?—”
“Don't stop?”
“Don't stop—” His fists had the pillowcase twisted completely out of shape. His thighs were shaking in earnest now, the lace stockings trembling with it, his whole body caught between pushing back onto my fingers and pulling away from the overwhelming precision of it.
I didn't stop.
Worked him faster still, wrist moving in tight controlled strokes, watching his back arch and release and arch again, watching the lace pull and shift across his ass with every movement. He was making a sound now that was just one sustained broken note, not a word, not a name, just pure sensation with a voice attached to it.
My free hand slid around his hip.
Found the lace waistband. Hooked my fingers underneath it and pulled the fabric aside, freeing his cock, and wrapped my hand around him bare for the first time.
The sound he made when my palm closed around him was something I was going to carry for a long time.
He was soaked. Pre-come welling thick and continuous, coating my palm within the first stroke, slicking down my fingers, making every pull wet and obscene and audible in the dark bedroom. The warmth of him. The weight. The way he twitched and pulsed in my grip with every simultaneous stroke of the fingers still buried inside him.
Both hands working him. One inside, one out, and Troy pressed his face into the pillow and made a sound that was someone losing the last of themselves entirely.
“Turn over,” I said. Rough. Barely recognizable.
He turned. Slower than earlier, limbs not entirely reliable, and when he was on his back he looked up at me with eyes that were glassed over and dark and a mouth that was swollen and open and still wet from before. The lace sat crooked across his hips where I'd shifted it, his cock lying hard against his stomach, the stockings still intact on his legs, and the sight of him like this in the city light was something I had no language for.
I ran my mouth down the center of his chest.
Tasted sweat and heat and skin that smelled like him, uniquely him, the scent I'd been filing away without permission since the second week and was finally allowed to take all the way in. His stomach tensed under my lips. My hand kept working his cock in slow strokes that were entirely about torment now, slick and easy from everything that had gathered in my palm.
His hand came down and covered mine.
Not stopping. Just pressing. Showing me the rhythm he wanted, tightening my grip fractionally, guiding the pace with a certainty that sent a pulse of heat straight to my cock. I let him. Followed his lead, let his hand direct mine, and felt him exhale a long shaking breath when the speed landed exactly where he needed it.
His other hand went into my hair.
Pulled me up his body, not asking, just directing, and I went, dragging my mouth up his ribs and his chest until he pulled me fully over him and his mouth found mine.
The kiss was nothing like the ones in the kitchen.
His lips were already parted and his tongue pushed into my mouth immediately, tasting everything we'd been doing to each other, and his hand on the back of my head held me there with a grip that said he wasn't interested in softness. I kissed him back just as hard. Felt his cock jump in my fist between us.
He pulled back half an inch and spit directly into my mouth.
I swallowed. His eyes tracked my throat. Then I gathered what I had and gave it back, and his body surged up against me and his grip in my hair went brutal and he kissed me through it, messy and open and past caring about anything.
I pulled back.
