Then he took me into his mouth.
The wet heat of it hit me all at once and my hips moved up before I could catch them, hand going tight in his hair, and I felt him take it — felt him take more of me than I'd expected, working me deeper with a slow, deliberate pull that had my thighs trembling and my back going rigid against the mattress. He was good at this. He was extraordinarily, specifically good at this, and the difference between knowing that abstractly and experiencing it firsthand was significant enough that I lostseveral seconds to just feeling the slide of his tongue along the underside of me, the careful pressure of his lips, the way he breathed through his nose and settled his weight like he was comfortable here, like this was somewhere he intended to stay for a while.
He pulled back slowly, and when he released me the sound was wet and obscene and the cool air hit the saliva coating me and made me twitch.
He looked up at me. His lips were swollen and slick, chin glistening, and the picture of him like that — mouth used and wet, looking up at me from between my thighs with his hair a mess from my hand — did something to me I was going to have to reckon with later.
“You good?” he asked.
“I need you to keep going.” My voice came out unrecognizable.
He smiled, slow and a little wrecked around the edges, and then he licked a long stripe up the underside of me from root to tip and I made an embarrassingly broken sound that bounced off the walls of the hotel room.
He worked me properly after that. Long, thorough strokes with his tongue, alternating with the wet pull of taking me in, going deeper each time in a way that felt like he was learning how to do it, calibrating, adjusting for the size of me with a focused patience that made my whole chest tight. My thighs were on either side of his head, the hair on them pressed against his cheeks and jaw, and he didn't pull away from any of it. He turned his face into my inner thigh between strokes and pressed his lips there and I felt stubble and warmth and the wet smear of his own mouth against my skin and it was so much, so specifically intimate and filthy all at once, that I had to press my free hand flat against the mattress and breathe.
“Soren.”
He hummed around me in response, and the vibration of it travelled up my spine and blew a fuse somewhere behind my eyes.
He was getting messy with it. I could feel it — the way his mouth was running wet, saliva slicking down to his fingers where they wrapped around my base, dripping to my thighs. He didn't seem to mind. He seemed to actively not mind, making low sounds of his own against me that suggested he was getting as much out of this as I was, which was a concept I couldn't process while he was currently doing what he was doing to the back of my brain.
He pulled off again, and when he looked up at me this time his chin was wet and his lips were flushed and there was a long, gleaming thread of spit connecting his mouth to the tip of me that broke when he shifted his angle, and I stopped trying to think rationally about anything at all.
“You have no idea,” he said, and his voice had gone rough and a little undone, “how long I've been—” He didn't finish the sentence. He wrapped his fist around me and stroked slowly, watching his own hand work, and his jaw was tight with something he was keeping close. “You're so fucking thick, Rook. I can barely—” He opened his mouth and proved that he could, taking me deep enough that his eyes watered slightly, and the muffled, desperate sound he made around me when he hit the limit of it went straight through me like a blade.
My hand tightened in his hair without any instruction from me. He groaned, low and wanting, and the grip he had on my base tightened in answer.
“Do it,” he said when he pulled back, and his voice was wrecked in a way I hadn't heard from him yet, all the steadiness dissolved. He looked up at me with his lips parted and wet and his chest heaving and said, “Rook. Push me down. I want you to fuck my face.”
The room went very still for a second.
“You sure?—”
“I asked, didn't I?” His eyes were dark and direct and completely certain. “Don't be careful right now. I'll tell you if I need you to stop.”
I looked at him for one more second. Then I tightened my grip in his hair, and I pushed.
He took it. He took all of it, the full, slow slide down until his lips were pressed against his own fingers and his throat was working around me and the sounds he was making were muffled and ruined. His hands came up to grip my thighs, not pushing me away but steadying himself against me, fingers pressing into the muscle there, and I held the back of his head and set a slow rhythm that had every muscle in my body pulled taut.
The wet sounds of it filled the room. His mouth was slick and open and he was dripping, genuinely dripping, saliva running down over his fingers and onto the inside of my thigh, and every time I pushed him down he made a sound against me that vibrated through to my spine and bypassed thinking entirely.
“Soren.” My voice had completely vacated the premises of composed. “I'm not going to last if you?—”
He pulled back enough to breathe, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a way that was somehow the most annihilating thing he'd done yet, and looked up at me with dark, wet eyes and a jaw that was still working.
“Good,” he said, hoarse. “That's the point.”
He took me back in before I could answer, deeper this time, and his hands pushed my thighs wider and his throat worked around me and I felt the orgasm building at the base of my spine with a velocity that had no patience in it.
He pulled back when I was close enough that my thighs were starting to tighten, and looked up at me with swollen lips and dark eyes.
“Not yet,” he said.
“Soren—”
“Not yet.” He kissed the inside of my thigh like a period at the end of a sentence, pressing his wet mouth to the hair there and staying for a moment like he was grounding himself as much as managing me. His breathing was ragged. His chin was slick. He looked like what he was and the sight of him like that was going to be a problem I'd be dealing with for a long time.
“I want to show you something first.”
