I pull off, but slowly — after one last drag of my tongue along the underside — and look up at him. “Would that be so bad?”
His head falls back against the cushion, undone. “It would be over too fast.”
My whole body is trembling from his hand, and he looks undone. “Bedroom,” I say.
He yanks his sweatpants up and then he stands up with me. “Come on,” he says.
My legs lock around his hips by reflex and my arms around his neck, and his hand stays between my thighs — fingers pressed flat against me through the lace, not inside, just there, keeping the pressure on — as he walks us across his apartment like I weigh nothing.
I bury my face in his neck and bite him gently, feeling the rumble of his groan through my ribs, and for three seconds of hallway I think:I am being carried to bed by a Halden hockey player at midnight and I do not recognize my life.
The bedroom is dim, and he lays me down on the bed — of course he makes his bed — and his hand goes to the duvet corner, starts to fold it back neatly, and then he catches himself and just shoves it aside. Then he kneels between my knees and looks at me with reverence.
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I am.”
“You’re allowed to do significantly more than look at me.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I’m savoring.”
I press the heel of my hand to my eyes and laugh because if I don’t I’ll cry, and for one awful second the old instinct kicks in —compose yourself, you’re being too much— but then he reaches up and grabs my hand and pulls it away, so I’m looking at him.
And the utter fucking consideration in his eyes undoes me.
“Rowan,” I say. “I want you.”
His eyes stay on me as he pulls my panties down, and then he smiles and goes to work. His mouth moves to my hip, then the inside of my left thigh — and he stops at the little birthmark high on the inside, kisses it once, soft, like he’s claiming it — and then he keeps going.
The first touch of his tongue against my clit produces a sound I did not authorize, and my back comes off the mattress. As my hand finds his hair, he hums against me, and the vibration goes straight through me.
He’s good at this…
Ofcoursehe’s good at this.
He is good at this in a way that is entirely consistent with the rest of who he is, which is infuriating. I would tell him that if I could speak, but I cannot. So I lie back and let the sheer, amazing competence win.
He’s patient. His tongue moves slow and flat, then circles my clit, then slow again, and every time my hips jump he goes back to exactly that pressure like he’s cataloging me, filing away every sound I make.
Then two fingers slide inside me, curling forward while his mouth stays on my clit, and when they find the spot at the same time his tongue finds the rhythm, my thighs clamp around his head.
“Rowan—”
He hums again.
“I’m—”
He doesn’t stop.
I come against his mouth with his name in my throat and my thighs around his head and my hand fisted in his hair. And I am loud,properlyloud, and I do not care. And when I start to come back down, he kisses his way up my body, very pleased with himself.
“Smug,” I say.
“Earned it.”
My body is still humming, aftershocks running through my thighs, and I am nowhere near done with him. So I reach for his waistband, and he helps, sweatpants and boxers coming off together, and then he’s naked above me.
I wrap my hand around his cock. “Hi,” I say.
