He made a sound of protest that I felt against my lips.
I grabbed both his thighs and pushed them up and back, folding him open, and the sound that replaced the protest was something entirely different. His legs went where I put them without resistance, knees toward his chest, the lace stockings framing everything, the scrap of black fabric still pulled aside from before.
From this angle, in this light, everything exposed and open and waiting. Pink and soft and perfectly tight, still faintly slick from my fingers, the lace framing him like it had been designed for exactly this purpose.
My jaw tightened with want so acute it was almost anger.
“Fuck,” I said. Same word as earlier. A completely different meaning now.
His stomach clenched when he heard my voice. “Declan?—”
“Quiet.” I pressed my lips to the inside of his thigh, just above the lace band of the stocking. Felt him shiver. “I've got you.”
I worked my mouth inward. Slow. Tasting the skin at the crease of his thigh, the warmth there, the specific heat that radiated from the center of him. He smelled obscenely good. Musky and warm and entirely him, the same scent I'd been filing away without permission since the second week and was finally, finally allowed to take without apology.
I pressed my mouth directly against him.
The sound Troy made came from somewhere deep in his chest and had no consonants attached to it whatsoever.
I licked a slow flat stroke across him and felt his whole body contract. His hands flew down, one gripping the back ofmy head, not pushing, just needing somewhere to hold. I did it again, broader this time, the full flat of my tongue pressed against him, and tasted heat and salt and something beneath both that went straight to every animal part of my brain simultaneously.
I couldn't get enough of it.
I ate him with an attention that had nothing measured about it, tongue working slow circles, then pressing directly, then pulling back to drag wet open-mouthed kisses against him while he shook above me and made sounds that were going to live in my head permanently. His grip in my hair tightened every time my tongue pushed against the center and I kept returning there, kept pressing in, feeling him open fractionally more each time.
“You taste—” I said it against him, lips moving on the words, felt him shudder at the vibration. “Fuck, Troy. You taste perfect.”
“Fuck—”
“Every time you walked through my kitchen.” I pressed my tongue flat and felt him twitch. “Every time you were close enough. I thought about this.” Another slow circle. His thigh against my jaw was shaking. “Thought about getting my mouth on you. Taking you apart exactly like this.”
“Declan, I'm going to?—”
“No you're not.” I pulled back just enough, lips brushing against him without delivering. “Not yet.”
He said something into the pillow that was mostly profanity.
I went back in. Hands gripping the backs of his thighs, holding him exactly where I wanted him, face buried between while I worked him with lips and tongue and the occasional graze of teeth that made his spine bow clean off the mattress. His sounds had gone formless again. Just continuous broken noise, his hand in my hair alternating between gripping and smoothing like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to hold on or push me closer.
I pressed my tongue in as far as it would go and groaned against him.
The vibration sent his hips rolling forward against my face, chasing it, and I let him, hands shifting to his ass through the lace, gripping the muscle there and pulling him harder into my mouth.
“Going to fill you up,” I said, low and rough, lips moving against him. “Get so deep inside you. Breed you until you can't think straight.” I licked another slow stroke that made him gasp. “My stepson. Mine.”
His cock pulsed against his stomach, slicking fresh heat across his skin.
I pulled back.
Reached across him to the nightstand, not taking my eyes off his face, and my hand found the lube by feel. The click of the cap opening was loud in the quiet bedroom. Troy's eyes tracked downward, watching my hands, watching me pour the slick into my palm with a deliberateness that was entirely about making him wait.
I wrapped my hand around myself.
The sound I made was involuntary. I'd been hard for so long that the first stroke of a properly slicked fist sent white across the edges of my vision for a half second. I kept my eyes on Troy's face while I stroked myself slow and thorough, watching his expression do things he couldn't control.
His throat moved. Swallowing.
“On all fours,” I said.
