I curled slightly and felt him gasp and did it again, and again, finding the rhythm that made his hips move without asking them to.
“More,” he said, barely audible.
I added a second finger and took my time opening him, working him soft and thorough and wet, the way you'd work something you intended to spend a long time with. His hips rolled back against my hand in slow, greedy pulses, chasing the depth each time I pressed in, and the small sounds he was making into the duvet were continuous and completely unguarded.
“Rook.” My name, pulled apart at the seams. “Please.”
I withdrew my fingers slowly and heard the sound he made at the absence. Then I lowered myself and pressed my mouth to him.
His thighs were shaking on either side of my face, the lace stockings warm under my palms where I gripped them, and every time I pressed deeper he made a new sound that was more wrecked than the last one.
His hand dropped back and found my hair.
I pressed in closer and felt him grip.
“Don't stop,” he said, and his voice was barely recognizable. “Please don't stop. Please. Rook. Please.”
I had no intention of stopping.
I worked him until his thighs stopped shaking and started pressing back against my face instead, hips rolling in slow insistent circles that told me he'd moved past overwhelmed and into demanding. I held him open with both thumbs and pressed my tongue in as deep as it would go and felt the full-body clench of him around it.
I pulled back just far enough to breathe, lips still pressed to him, and gathered spit in my mouth and let it fall directly ontohis hole, warm and deliberate, and heard the sound he made into the duvet.
“Fuuuck—”
I pressed back in and worked it into him with my tongue, thorough and unhurried, feeling him go loose and then clench and then loose again, his whole body cycling through the sensation with nothing held back. His hand had tightened in my hair to the point of real pressure and I let him hold, let him grip, let him use me as an anchor while I took him apart at the seams.
Then I pulled back and reached for the lube.
I slicked myself slowly, one hand working from base to tip, and the pressure of my own grip against the cock ring sent a pulse through me that tightened my jaw. He heard the slick sound of it and turned his face sideways on the duvet and looked back at me, and the expression on his face was past patience entirely.
“Turn over,” I said.
He rolled onto his back and I was already moving, getting both hands behind his knees, and he read my intent and lifted his legs and I put them up onto my shoulders.
The lace stockings pressed warm against the sides of my neck.
That detail nearly undid me before I'd even started. The delicate fabric against my skin, the warmth of his calves on my shoulders, the full length of him laid open below me with the lace pulled taut across his thighs and his cock flushed hard against his stomach and his eyes looking up at me with something that was want and trust in equal measure.
I lined up and pressed in.
He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a week.
I gave him two seconds of stillness. Two seconds of feeling the full stretch of me seated inside him, of his body adjusting to the weight and the depth and the ring at my base pressingfirm against him. Then I pulled back and drove forward and the sound he made cracked open at the top.
“Yes.” Raw and immediate. “Yes. Right there. Don't stop.”
I didn't stop.
The angle was devastating for both of us. His legs on my shoulders folded him deep, and every thrust landed with a fullness that I felt in my hands where I gripped his hips, in my shoulders where the lace pressed against them, in the base of me where the ring held everything tight and insistent. He was gripping the duvet above his head with both hands, knuckles white, head tipped back, and the sounds coming out of him were continuous and undefended and going straight through me.
“You feel that?” I drove in deep and held. “Tell me you feel that.”
“All of it.” His voice was wrecked. “Every inch. Rook, I swear?—”
I pulled back and fucked forward again and his whole body slid up the mattress.
“Mine,” I said, low and certain. “Every sound you make. All of it mine.”
