He nods. A single motion. Decision made.
“Take off my belt.”
The air exits my lungs.
I look into his eyes, searching for the joke, the test.
My hands are shaking. I stand and lower to my knees on the rug. The chair slides back behind me. He’s right there, inches away, his belt at my eye level.
The belt is black leather with silver buckles, not ornate or flashy.
I gulp… and reach for it. My fingers find the metal. The buckle is warm. I work the prong free and pull the leather through the loop. The whisper of the leather sliding against fabric is louder than it has any right to be.
“Continue,” he says.
My fingers work the button, and the fabric parts. The zipper is next — metal teeth opening under my fingers with a sound that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
His trousers drop an inch. Then two. Held by his hips, by the lean cut of his body, but the V of the opening reveals the waistband of his black briefs and beneath them, unmistakable, is the outline of what I already knew was there. Hard. Straining against the fabric.
I stop and wait. My hands hover, my breathing is shallow, and the space between us is charged.
“Finish,” he says.
I hook my fingers into the waistband, yanking it down. The fabric clears him, and he’s there. Thick, hard. The size is proportional to the rest of him. Considerable.
I’m not surprised. I shouldn’t be. A man with Rolan’s build, with hands that size and shoulders that width… But the reality still makes my mouth go dry and my center wet.
“Open your mouth,” he commands.
I look up, his face is above me. Far above. The angle is steep, his jaw defined from below, his eyes looking down into mine. He’s not asking.
My body, wired now to the frequency of his voice, responds before my mind can intervene.
I open my mouth.
He doesn’t move immediately, letting the moment exist — my mouth open, his body hard. The patience is cruel.
Then he steps forward. Slowly. The first contact is careful. He presses the tip of his cock against my lips, my tongue, the width of him stretching my mouth in a way that makes my jaw ache.
My eyes water, and the sensation deep in my core clenches with a want so sharp it borders on pain.
I take him.
My hand wraps around the base — the part my mouth can’treach — and the girth of him in my palm makes my fingers barely meet.
I stroke in time with my mouth. It’s a fluid motion, coordinated, and when I find the right pressure, the right pace, the right combination of tongue and hand and suction?—
He makes a sound.
Low. Guttural, between a groan and a growl. The sound shoots through me to my core as his hand comes to rest at the back of my head.
His fingers thread through my hair with a gentleness that contradicts everything else about this moment. But the gentleness lasts three seconds before the grip tightens, firm and guiding, setting a pace that’s faster than mine, deeper.
I adjust, breathing through my nose and relaxing my throat. His hips begin to move — controlled at first, shallow thrusts that let me keep pace, and then less controlled, the rhythm building, his breathing changing, the hand in my hair tightening.
He lets out a growl. I’m soaked. Completely, desperately soaked. My panties are ruined, and my thighs are damp.
My center clenches while my mouth works him. My hand grips him, and some broken, rewired part of my brain is completely flooded with ecstasy.
