I stopped trying to hold anything in.
The sounds that came out of me after that were the kind I was going to be unable to explain or reproduce on request. When my breathing went ragged he pressed deeper. He was mappingme with his mouth and doing it methodically and the fact that I was completely incapable of managing my own responses didn't seem to concern either of us anymore.
“You're so responsive,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, and I could feel the warmth of his breath replacing the warmth of his mouth and the loss of contact was its own specific torment. “Every time I—” He pressed back in and I groaned into the pillow. “Yeah. Like that. Fuck, Rook.”
His hands slid from the backs of my thighs to my hips, gripping, steadying me or steadying himself, maybe both, and the pressure of his fingers in my skin was grounding and maddening in equal measure.
“Soren.” His name came out wrecked. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“More. I need—” I didn't have the vocabulary for what I needed. “More.”
He reached past me to where he'd set the lube on the nightstand — I heard the soft click of it — and then his hand was back, slicked and warm, and he pressed one finger against me slowly.
The sensation was new and strange and full in a way that made me tighten instinctively, and he waited. Just waited, patient as he'd been about everything else tonight, until I breathed out and felt myself ease around him.
“Good,” he said quietly. “That's good. You're doing so well.”
The praise hit me somewhere I hadn't been expecting. A hot pull under my sternum, low and urgent, and I pushed back against his hand without meaning to.
“Oh,” he said, and now there was real surprise in his voice under the roughness. “Yeah, okay. You like that.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed, low and warm against my spine, and pressed deeper. “You pushed back, Rook. I'm not making anything up.”
I had pushed back. I was aware of that. I was aware of most things happening to my body in a granular, immediate way while being completely unable to translate any of it into composed behavior, and his voice in my ear being warm and genuinely pleased about it wasn't making that any easier.
He worked me open with his mouth and his hand together, and the combination of the two was something my nervous system simply had no prior framework for. The stretch of his finger and the wet press of his tongue at once, the layered sensation of being attended to so completely, pulled sounds out of me that went beyond what the pillow could contain. By the time he added a second finger I was past coherent language.
“Right there,” I said, or something that was meant to be that.
“I know,” he said. “I've got it.”
He did. He very much did.
“You're gorgeous like this,” he said against my spine, between the movement of his fingers inside me. He pressed deeper and I made a sound that had no consonants in it.
He worked me open with his fingers and his mouth until my whole body was shaking with the sustained effort of staying in position, and then he pulled back and pressed his lips to my spine and stayed there a moment.
“Roll back over,” he said.
I rolled over.
The ceiling of the hotel room was white and unremarkable and I stared at it for a moment while my body tried to reorient itself from everything it had just experienced. My thighs were still trembling faintly. My hands were sore from the headboard. I felt hollowed out and rewired at the same time, like something had been taken apart and reassembled slightly differently and I hadn't been consulted about the new configuration.
Then Soren moved up the bed and swung one knee over my hips and sat back on his heels above me, and the trembling in my thighs got worse.
He looked down at me for a moment without touching me. Just looked. His chest was heaving slightly and his hair was a wreck and his lips were swollen from everything his mouth had been doing, and the red lace thong was sitting exactly where it had been sitting for the past hour, still barely functional, still doing nothing to conceal how hard he was. The fabric was strained tight across him, the outline of his cock pressed against the lace in a way that made my mouth go dry, and there was a damp patch darkening the front of it that hadn't been there before.
He was leaking through the fabric. Had been for a while, from the look of it.
“You're staring,” he said.
“You're wearing red lace and sitting on me.” I met his eyes. “I'm going to stare.”
His face went warm and a little unsteady. He dropped his gaze from mine, and then he put both hands flat on my chest and the warmth of them hit me all at once.
