He pressed his palms into the hair there, running them outward across my pectorals. His thumbs dragged through the hair on my chest, spreading it, tracing the grain of it.
He then dragged his palms back inward, fingers curling into the muscle of my chest, squeezing once like he was testing the density of it. “All of this. The hair, the size of you—” He rocked his hips slightly without seeming to notice he was doing it, the lace pressing against my stomach, and I felt the wet of it smear against my skin. “I've thought about getting my hands on you for a long time. I just need you to know that.”
He bent down and pressed his mouth to my collarbone. Then lower, to the center of my chest, lips pushing into the hair there,and the sensation of his mouth muffled by it made me exhale in a long, slow rush.
“Fuck,” he said against my chest, and his voice had gone muffled and rough. “You smell so good. I don't know if you know that but you do.”
He mouthed his way across to my nipple, and the first press of his lips there pulled a sound out of me that surprised both of us.
He paused. Looked up at me from under his lashes. Then he did it again, slower, and the sound came out lower and longer and I stopped trying to moderate what left my mouth.
“There,” he said quietly, and there was a warm satisfaction in it that made my chest tighten. He circled his tongue once, slow and wet, and my hips rolled up under him before I could catch them. “I wondered about that. You've been holding out on me.”
“I didn't know?—”
“I know you didn't.” He drew the flat of his tongue across my nipple and I made a sound that hit the ceiling. “That's why I'm here.”
He worked at it with patient, filthy attention — tongue and lips and the occasional scrape of his teeth that walked the line between too much and exactly right. My hand found the back of his head without any decision from me. He made an approving sound against my chest that vibrated straight through to my spine.
He crossed to the other side, mouth dragging through the hair on my sternum on the way, and gave the second nipple the same focused treatment until I was making the same broken sounds and my hips had found a slow, involuntary rhythm against his.
“Sensitive,” he said against my chest, like he was noting it for later. He probably was. “Really sensitive. Do you know that's—” He pressed his lips flat to my skin and breathed out warm. “That's so fucking good, Rook. You're so good.”
The praise unwound something in my chest that I'd been holding clenched for longer than tonight.
He moved up further, kissing the curve of my shoulder, the top of my arm, and then he pushed my arm up with one hand and pressed his face into the hollow of my armpit and inhaled.
I went completely still.
“Soren—”
“Don't.” His voice came out rough and a little desperate against my skin. “Don't tell me to stop.” He pressed his lips there, open and warm, and I heard the sound he made against my skin — low and wanting. “Fuck. You smell incredible.”
Whatever I'd been about to say disbanded entirely.
He pressed his mouth into the hair there and I felt his tongue and his lips and the warm wet drag of both. My free hand found his hair and I held him there and felt him exhale against me like he was somewhere he'd been trying to get to.
“You have no idea,” he said, muffled, his lips moving against me. “What you do to me. You have absolutely no idea.”
“I'm starting to get one,” I said. My voice was wrecked.
He laughed against my skin, warm and a little broken at the edges, and then he was moving back down my body, hands spreading wide over my stomach. He pressed his lips to my ribs, my side, the swell of muscle at my flank, kissing his way across terrain like he was mapping it, and his hips were moving against mine in slow, unconscious rolls that dragged the damp lace across my skin.
That was when my hands moved to his ass.
I got both palms on him — the curves of him through the lace, the warmth of his skin — and squeezed, and the sound he made against my stomach was satisfyingly undone.
“Rook—”
I brought my palm down in a sharp crack against one cheek, not hard enough to be anything other than intent, and the sound he made went up a register and his hips bucked forward against me hard enough that I felt him throb through the fabric.
“Oh,” he said faintly. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” I did it again, the other side, and felt the lace string of the thong shift under my palm with the impact.
“Yeah.” He pressed his face into my stomach. “Yeah, keep—” He broke off when I ran my thumb along the thin string of the thong from his hip inward, tracing it down through where it sat between his cheeks. “Keep going.”
I spread him slightly and felt the lace pull tight, and he made a sound into my skin that vibrated against my abdomen and went straight to my cock. I ran my thumb along the thin strip of fabric where it sat against him, pressing lightly, and his whole body went rigid and then loose all at once.
