“Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this?” he says as he grazes his lips down my neck.
“Oh, trust me, I know. Even The Destroyer was no substitute for you,” I gasp.
Leo pulls back, his eyes flaring with heat. “At some point, you’ll need to give me a demonstration of your technique with that thing, but right now, it’s just us.”
“It’s just us,” I agree breathlessly. “And no broken ankle to worry about.”
His hands are running down my chest, and I stop being able to form coherent thoughts somewhere around the third rib.
When his fingertips find the dip of my hip bones, I actually whimper.
Then Leo sinks to his knees, pulling off my pants and underwear before taking my cock into his mouth.
He worships me. There’s no other word for it. His mouth is warm as he takes me deep, and the sensation is so intense that my head once more drops against the wall with a thud. We’re really tempting the gods of concussion with how much head thumping of walls is currently going on.
He works me over with long, slow strokes, and every cognitive function I’ve ever prided myself on starts to shut down.
Oh my god.
This man. His mouth.
When he swirls his tongue over my cockhead, I slam my palm flat against the wall to stop my knees from buckling.
Meanwhile, his fingers cup my balls and then circle back to tease my entrance, which frankly, is just unfair. The man is conducting a multifront assault, and I can’t cope with the overwhelming sensory input.
He releases me and looks up, and the expression on his face—flushed, dark-eyed, mouth swollen—nearly finishes me on the spot.
“Bed,” I manage. It’s the only word my brain can produce.
My legs can barely hold my weight as I stagger the few feet to the bed and collapse face-first into the mattress.
“There’s lube in my suitcase,” I say, turning my head to the side. “Hurry. There’s a chance I’m going to spontaneously combust after that.”
And luckily, my extremely competent man locates the lube in record time because suddenly he’s here, his body blanketing mine, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades before working his way down my spine.
Then lower.
What Leo does next should require some kind of license. There should seriously be a regulatory body that monitors this and an accreditation process through which Leo would achieve their highest qualification. Because his tongue is doing things to me that I will never be able to describe, even with my extensive vocabulary.
I’ve always admired Leo’s focused competence, but when it’s focused on the most sensitive part of me, I’m not sure I’ll survive the experience.
When I’m a complete incoherent mess, gasping and grinding back against his mouth because my body has entirely stopped consulting my brain about its decisions, he adds a finger. The addition does nothing for my coherence but does wonders for the noises I’m making.
Finally, finally, he pulls away, and then he’s lining himself up, and oh my god, I want this so much. Three weeks without this, and my body was apparently keeping a running tally of exactly what it was missing because the fullness of him feels like something slotting back into place.
“You’re mine,” he whispers in my ear. Shit. That shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does, but apparently my libido is a simple fellow who likes claims of possession. Every cell in my body responds to those two words like they’ve been waiting for them.
“You’re mine too,” I gasp.
He presses his forehead against the back of my neck. His breath is ragged and warm against my skin, and for a second, hedoesn’t move. Like he needs to feel me before he can let himself have me.
“Always.” His voice is hoarse in my ear.
Then he starts to move, and I stop thinking.
He finds the angle where he hits my prostate on every single stroke like he’s got GPS. I’m shaking, actually shaking, my face pressed into the mattress, making sounds I’d be embarrassed about if I had any capacity left for shame.
And then, if that’s not enough, he rearranges me so he can stroke me off at the same time.
