I made a sound against the glass that fogged a wider patch in front of my mouth.
He did it again.
The second one landed across the same spot and the flare went deeper, and my hips jerked forward into the cold glass and then back into his hand in one involuntary motion. My cock was already straining against the front of the thong, the lace soaked through at the tip, pressed hard against the cool surface of the window, and the combination of the heat at my ass and the cold against my front had my whole nervous system firing at once.
Jace was coming apart against the wall in real time, his head rolling sideways, his eyes opening long enough to find my face before they rolled closed again.
Rook's hand was back on me, soothing the heat he'd put there, palm dragging slow over the lace in long circles.
“You're hot through this,” he said quietly. “Can feel it.”
He hooked two fingers under the waistband at my hip and slid them inward along the lace, following the line of the thong around the curve of my ass, until he reached the thin strip of fabric between my cheeks. He caught it in his fingers and pulled it aside, slow, baring me to the cool air of the room and whatever he intended to do next.
His other hand stayed pressed to my lower back.
“Stay there,” he said. “Don't move.”
I didn't move.
He leaned forward over me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his chest hovering just above my back without touching, and I heard him gather saliva in his mouth, unhurried, deliberate, the sound of it audible in the quiet of the room.
He spat.
The warmth of it landed directly on my hole, and my forehead dropped forward against the glass with a soft knock that fogged the pane a third time.
“Oh god.”
“Yeah.” His thumb came down and pressed against the wetness, spreading it in a slow circle. “Look at that.”
His thumb worked slow circles over me, spreading the warmth of his spit into my skin, and then his hand moved and I heard him spit into his palm a second time. A wetter sound. More generous. He slicked his fingers and brought them back to me and the first press of his middle finger against my entrance was unhurried and exact.
He pushed in.
One slow, controlled slide to the second knuckle. He held there. Let me adjust to the stretch. His other hand had moved to rest warm at the small of my back, flat and steady, grounding me in place against the window.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Open up for me.”
He drew back slow and pushed in deeper.
The second pass went all the way in and I felt his knuckles settle against me and his finger curled and found the spot that made my whole body jolt forward into the glass. My forehead knocked against the pane and stayed there. My breath came out in a long shaky exhale.
“Fuck.” Soft. Wrecked.
“Yeah.” Rook's voice had gone low and unhurried and entirely focused. “You're so fucking wet already. Feel that?”
He pulled out slow and I heard the slick sound of it and then his finger pressed back in, wetter now from his own spit and whatever my body was giving him, and the sound of him working me was audible and continuous and filthy in a way that went straight through my spine.
“Hear yourself,” he said. “Listen.”
I listened.
Every slow pump of his finger made a soft wet sound that filled the quiet of the room, and he kept the pace steady. His other hand had come up under my hip and was bracing me slightly away from the glass, giving him a better angle, and he used it now to tilt me back into his hand so the next push went deeper.
Across, Coach had Jace turned around against the wall.
Jace's palms were against the drywall now, forehead pressed forward, his back curved into a long bowed line, and Coach was behind him on his knees with his face pressed in between. I could see the shape of Coach's shoulders working, the slow bob of his head, the way Jace's whole body was trembling against the wall in response.
Rook's finger curled inside me. He pulled out slowly and I felt him gather more saliva and heard the soft sound as he spat directly onto his fingers and then against me. “Open wider for me.”
