"Since always. That's your whole fucking thing."
"Maybe I'm trying something new."
I grab his wrist and pull him off the wall, three steps across the room toward the bed. He resists. One second. Feet planted. Dante deciding whether to let me lead or to take back control. Then he moves, letting me guide him. My pulse goes hard.
I shove him down onto the mattress. I'm over him immediately, one hand pinning his wrist above his head. Hisother hand grips the back of my neck hard enough to sting, a reminder that he's still here, still in this.
"You're enjoying this," he says, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
"You're still talking. You're bad at following my instructions. You're damn good at following your own."
His eyes flash, a spark of something hot and dangerous.
I release his wrist and slide down his body, my hands skimming along the ridges of his ribs, the hard planes of his stomach. I drag my lips along the sharp jut of his hip bone, tasting salt and skin. He makes a strangled sound and cuts it off, swallowing the noise.
"Let me hear it," I say, my mouth against his hip.
"Earn it."
I hook my fingers in his waistband and pull his boxer briefs down. The barbells catch the dim light from the window, six steel beads gleaming against his skin. I know them by touch. I've traced each one in the dark for years, mapped the spacing with my tongue, learned which ones make his breath stutter and which ones make him grip the sheets until his knuckles go white. The third from the base is the one that breaks him. I've used that information since the first time I found it.
I lower my mouth. My tongue slides upward, catching the barbell just below the head, pressing it against the sensitive ridge underneath. He swears. A bitten-off curse in Italian. I take more. Deeper. Each barbell sliding past my lips, the steel warm from his skin. I swallow around him, and his entire body goes rigid, a bowstring drawn taut. His hand yanks my hair, a hard tug that makes my scalp tingle. I pull back. Take him down again. Setting the rhythm, the pace, the depth. The barbells dragging against the inside of my mouth with each pass, a sensation I know drives him out of his fucking mind.
He tries to thrust, to take more. I slam both hands onto his hips and hold him flat against the mattress.
"Cole." His voice is breaking, shattered. "Let me move."
"No."
His head hits the pillow. His body loosens beneath me, surrendering to the restraint. Then his hand tightens in my hair and his hips push against my grip, a slow, relentless pressure. Back and forth. Each wave heavier than the last.
I pull off. The sound that leaves him is raw, desperate, almost a sob.
"Ask nicely."
"Cole. I swear to God—"
"That's not nicely."
His eyes are dark, wild. His chest heaving. The flush spreading down his neck, across the tattoos, a map of his arousal. He's close. So close. Holding him there sends heat through me.
"Please." His voice cracks on it.
I take him back into my mouth. Fast. Deep strokes. My hand working the base, fingers pressing around the lowest barbell, twisting just so. His thighs begin to shake, the muscles quivering under my palms. Close. So close.
I pull off again.
"No—" His hips chase my mouth, a frantic, helpless movement. "Don't fucking stop—"
"You could flip me. Take it all back." I press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to his hip bone. "That's the part you're going to think about later."
His jaw clenches, the muscle jumping. His hand grabs my jaw, forces my face up. His grip is hard, possessive. His eyes burn into mine. He could take it all back. Right now. We both know it.
His hand falls. His palm hits the mattress with a soft thump.
"Finish it," he says, the command stripped down to bare need.
I lower my mouth. Take him deep. Fast. Tight. Relentless. This time I let him move, let his hips find the rhythm, let him fuck my mouth in short, desperate thrusts. The barbells glide against my tongue on every stroke, a brutal, perfect friction. My thumb presses firm, insistent circles behind his balls, the spot that makes him see stars.
