The glob of it landed at the base of the head and slid down slow, catching along the vein underneath, and I watched it travel with my mouth an inch away from him and breathed the heat of him in and didn't move for a beat longer than I needed to.
“Soren.” Rough. Bitten off. “Please.”
I took him in.
The first slide of my mouth around him was slow and thorough, tongue flat along the underside, lips tight just behind the head, and I took him as deep as I could go on the first pass and felt him bottom out against the back of my throat and held there. His hand was back in my hair immediately, fingers fisted tight, not guiding, just holding, the grip of a man who had stopped being in charge of what his body was doing.
I pulled back slow and came off him with a wet sound that filled the room and looked up at him with my lips still touching the tip of him, and he was staring down at me like I had done something that had broken a piece of his higher brain function.
“Fucking look at you,” he breathed.
I smiled, small and deliberate, and took him in again.
This time I set a rhythm. Slow and deep and wet, my hand working the base in time with my mouth, and I made sure the sounds were audible. The slick slide, the soft gasp of my own breath through my nose, the wet pop every time I pulled back to the tip.
I let my eyes drift sideways to the window. Jace’s head bobbed in a steady unhurried rhythm, his hand at the base, and Coach had both hands now, one on the back of Jace's head and the other running down across Jace's chest.
Coach did it again.
Jace shuddered and took him deeper.
Coach rolled the nipple between his fingers with the exact same unhurried patience he brought to line changes on the bench, watching Jace's face the whole time, calibrating by the sounds coming out of him, and when Jace's rhythm faltered Coach pressed gently at the back of his head and guided him forward and held him there. Jace's throat bulged visibly around him. He held there for five full seconds before Coach let him back.
Rook pulled me off him by the hair.
He stood with me, his body rising to meet mine, and his hand went immediately to the back of my neck.
“Move,” he said.
He walked me forward.
I went without resistance, bare feet over the carpet, the chain swinging from my collar and tapping against my chest with every step, and he steered me toward the window in a direct line until my palms came up instinctively and found the cold glass.
The shock of it went through my wrists and up my arms.
He pressed in behind me and pushed one hand flat between my shoulder blades and walked my chest into the window until the cool surface was against my pectorals and my cheek wasturned sideways against it and my breath was fogging the glass in slow irregular bursts.
Coach had Jace against the wall.
Jace's back was pressed flat against the drywall. His arms were up, wrists crossed above his head, held there by one of Coach's broad hands. His chest was bare and rising fast. The lamp in the corner of the room caught him in full relief, and between his legs his cock was flushed and hard and visibly straining upward against his stomach, glistening at the tip in a way I could see even through the glass and the yard between us.
Coach was on his knees.
He had Jace's thighs over his shoulders, or close enough to it, Jace's one leg hooked up and braced against Coach's back, and his face was buried between Jace's legs with the full, focused attention of a man who had all night and no intention of hurrying.
Jace's head was tipped back against the wall.
His mouth was open. His free hand, the one not pinned above his head, had been released by Coach at some point and was pressed flat against the wall beside his own hip, fingers splayed, gripping at nothing. Every few seconds his whole body jerked against the wall and Coach's hand on his hip held him in place and Jace's mouth opened wider.
Behind me, Rook's palm was smoothing down my back.
His hand kept moving, slow circles between my shoulder blades, soothing in a way that was entirely at odds with what his other hand was about to do. “Keep watching.”
His palm dragged down my spine to the small of my back.
It rested there for a moment, warm against the bare skin above the thin lace waistband, and then it moved lower.
He cupped my ass through the lace, slow, squeezing once with his whole hand, and I felt my hips push back into his palm without deciding to. The fabric was thin enough that I couldfeel the heat of his skin through it. He worked me in his hand unhurried, kneading the muscle, spreading his fingers wide, and then without warning he brought his palm down.
