Heat rolled through me. “I don’t beg that much.”
“You do when you’re past pretending.”
My hand tightened.
“Not faster,” he warned.
I forced myself back to slow, even though my hips wanted to chase.
“That’s it,” he said, quieter. “Stay with me.”
My eyes were closed. The room was dark. His voice came from across the room, making distance feel like another kind of restraint.
“I want to touch you,” I said.
“You are.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know.”
The honesty in his voice made my chest ache and my cock jerk in my fist.
“Spit in your palm,” he said.
I obeyed, messy and eager, then wrapped my wet hand around myself again. The slide was better. Slicker. My thighs shifted under the blankets.
“Now take your other hand,” Declan said. “Reach behind yourself.”
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Color?”
“Green,” I said, hoarse.
“Touch your hole.”
My whole body tightened at the words. Not because they were crude. Because his voice made them precise. Instruction, not shock.
I bent one knee, reached down and back, fingers moving over skin I had barely thought about before all this. The first brush made my stomach flip. I stroked my cock slower, almostdistracted by the vulnerable angle, the strange heat of touching myself there because he told me to.
“Just touch,” he said. “No pushing in.”
“Fuck.”
“Breathe.”
I did, badly.
My fingertip circled, tentative at first, then with more pressure. My cock throbbed in my fist. It felt dirty and intimate and terrifyingly good, like some closed door in my body had been waiting for his voice to name it.
“What does it feel like?” he asked.
“Too much.”
“Color.”
“Green. Too much green.”
