I lift my eyes. His are dark, pupils blown, watching my mouth stretched around him.
“Show me,” he rasps. “When I fill this mouth, you’ll keep it open and let me see before you swallow.”
Heat floods my face, my core. I nod once, barely, mouth too full to speak.
He starts moving then, small thrusts, controlled, fucking my mouth with careful brutality. The ladder drags with every slide, bars catching my tongue, rolling, bumping. I moan around him, the vibration making his thighs tense.
It doesn’t take long. He’s too wound up, too raw from the night. His breathing turns ragged, hand fisting my hair tighter.
“Fuck—now.”
He pulls out just enough, hand stroking fast over the slick length. I open wider, tongue out, waiting.
The first pulse hits my tongue—hot, thick. Then more, spilling over my lips, my tongue. I hold it there, careful, letting him see: white streaked across the pink of my tongue, pooling, some dripping down my chin.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, smearing it. “Beautiful,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Swallow.”
I close my mouth, throat working. The taste of him lingers, salt, heat and him.I swallow it down, slow, eyes never leaving his.
He exhales hard, thumb stroking my cheek now, almost tender.
“Perfect.”
I rest my forehead against his thigh for a second, catching my breath. His hand stays in my hair, petting absently, the way he does when the storm inside him finally quiets a little.
After a minute, I tilt my head up. “Feel better?”
His mouth curves, small, wicked, but softer at the edges as he tucks himself away. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
I smirk. “I know.”
He pulls me up into his lap without warning, arms banding around me. My dress is wrinkled, lipstick probably gone, hair a disaster.
He doesn’t care.
“Do you want babies?” he asks almost so low I barely hear it.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “I had a mother only for eight years. I don’t think I’m exactly built for that.”
Something in him loosens.
Not all at once. Not enough to be noticeable. But I’m close enough to feel it, the slow exhale against my skin, the way some of the steel leaves his shoulders.
Relief.
Ugly, real relief.
His hand slides up my thigh, warm and heavy. “Good.”
I lift a brow. “Good?”
“For now,” he says.
There it is.
I study him for a second. “Fornow?”
“Eventually, I’ll need an heir.” His mouth twists like he already hates the words. “The Amatos are not wrong about that.”
