Outside, the city stayed dark and cold and entirely indifferent to what was happening on the seventh floor of a hotel in Montreal. Inside, the room was quiet in a way that felt like it was holding its breath.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
no control left
ROOK
Iwoke up to the sensation of Soren's mouth on my neck and his hand already wrapped around my cock, and for about three seconds my brain couldn't process anything except the heat and the pressure and the fact that I was harder than I'd ever been in my life.
“Fuck—” The word came out strangled, and I felt him smile against my skin.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep and want. “Been awake for a while. Couldn't stop thinking about last night.”
Last night. The memory of it made my cock throb in his hand, and I had to fight not to thrust up into his grip. “Soren?—”
He pulled back enough to look at me, eyes dark and entirely focused. “Yeah?”
“Don't stop.”
He didn't stop.
He worked me slowly at first, getting deliberate about it the way he'd been deliberate about everything last night — learning what made me breathe differently, what made my jaw tighten, adjusting every time he found something that landed. I had one hand in his hair and the other flat against the mattress, and I was making sounds I would have been embarrassed about under any other circumstances and couldn't find it in me to care about right now.
He moved down my body and pressed his lips to my hip, then lower, and I felt his breath ghost over my cock in ways that made my whole body tense with anticipation.
He took his time getting there. His mouth dragged up the inside of my thigh in short, unhurried strokes, close enough to where I needed him that my hips wanted to roll up and meet him. He pressed them back down with a forearm across my stomach, not harsh, just immovable, and the patience of it was its own specific form of torment.
“Soren.” The word came out lower than I intended.
“Hmm?” He pressed a kiss against my hip. Another one.
“I swear to god if you don't?—”
He wrapped one hand around the base of my cock without any warning, firm and deliberate, and my whole body jerked. He didn't move his hand. Just held me there, applying enough pressure to make me acutely aware of every nerve ending I had, and looked up the length of my body with an expression that was pure satisfaction.
“There we go,” he said, mostly to himself.
“I hate you a little bit right now,” I told him.
“I know.” He pressed his thumb against the underside, slow and purposeful, and I felt the muscle in my thigh jump. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“Yeah, but I want to hear you say it.” He stroked once, base to tip, and stopped. “Come on.”
“Your mouth,” I said. The words scraped out rough and low. “I want your mouth on me.”
“Yeah?” He stroked again, slow, and I watched his tongue touch the corner of his lip like he was thinking about it. “Ask me properly.”
“Soren—”
“Ask me.”
I exhaled through my teeth. “Please.” The word cost me more than I expected. “Please put your mouth on me.”
He took me in without any more preamble, sinking down in one long, slow pull that left me with my head back and my teeth clenched against the noise trying to get out of my throat. He was warm and wet and thorough, and there was nothing hesitant about the way he moved.
He pulled off slowly and then did it again. Long, unhurried strokes that kept me hovering at the edge of desperate without tipping me over.
