"Claire, I'm close. If you don't want..."
I hollow my cheeks and take him as deep as I can, making my intentions clear.
"Fuck, fuck, Claire"
His hand fists in my hair and pulls me off him. The sound I make is embarrassing, a desperate whimper of protest, but he's already shaking his head, jaw tight, chest heaving.
"Two more seconds and it's over," he says roughly. "And I'll be damned if I finish anywhere but inside you."
Something about those words hits me low in the stomach. Hard. Derek used to take what he wanted without announcements, without asking, without giving me any say in the matter. But Tom saying it like that—direct, almost reverent, like being inside me is the only thing that matters, makes my whole body flush with heat.
But I'm not ready to give up the wheel yet. This is the first time in five years that I've been in charge of anything, and I'm not surrendering it easily.
I pull back and stand up. "Then wait."
His eyes track me, dark and blown wide. "Claire—"
"I said wait." I hold his gaze. "Don't move."
He exhales through his nose, a long breath, and leans back against the couch. His hands drop to his thighs. He's doing what I asked, actually doing what I asked, which is such a foreign concept that for a moment I just stare at him.
He looks absolutely wrecked. Hair pushed every direction from my hands. Sweat tracking down the lines of his chest and abs, catching in the definition of muscle underneath. His cock hard and flushed and waiting. His blue eyes locked on me with an intensity that should be terrifying.
It isn't. It's the most desired I've ever felt in my life.
I swing one leg over him and straddle his lap, but I don't take him in yet. Instead, I wrap both hands around his cock and stroke him slowly, watching his head tip back and his throat work.
"Jesus," he breathes at the ceiling.
I lean forward and press my lips to his jaw. His cheek. The corner of his mouth. He turns his head trying to catch my lips properly, and I let him for just a moment before pulling back with a smile he can probably feel more than see.
"Claire." My name in his mouth sounds different than it ever has. Like it means something.
"I hear you," I murmur.
I position him at my entrance and sink down.
There are no words for the first few seconds. None that would do it justice. I feel every inch of him as I take him in, feel the stretch and the fullness and the overwhelming rightness of it, and I have to close my eyes and just breathe through it. Just exist in this moment. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and the small pain only sharpens everything else.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him like it costs something. "You feel… God, Claire, you feel—"
"I know," I whisper. Because I do. I feel it too.
I stay still for a moment, adjusting, savoring. His thumbs trace circles against my hip bones like he's trying to soothe us both. When I finally start to move it starts as a roll of my hips, a slow grind that makes us both suck in air at the same time.
His hands tighten. "More."
"I'm in charge," I remind him.
"I know." His voice is strained. "I know you are."
I start to ride him properly, lifting and dropping, setting a rhythm that makes the couch creak quietly beneath us. His abs contract with every thrust, those arms flexing where he grips me, his face a picture of desperation.
Jackson. The thought cuts through the haze. I can't wake Jackson.
I bite my lip and swallow every sound I want to make, keeping my moans to soft exhales that only Tom can hear. His eyes track every expression on my face like he's reading a language he's been trying to learn for years.
"You're biting your lip," he says roughly.
