His fingers twisted in my hair, not guiding, just holding on, and the small, broken noise that escaped him was worth every second of restraint I’d exercised since the moment he walked into my office with a baby in his arms.
“Fuck,” he said, voice ragged. “Jesus Christ, Wolfe.”
I moved to the right nipple. Same treatment. Slower. His hips jerked forward, seeking contact, and I felt the hard line of his cock through his jeans press against my stomach.
The rut flared, bright and hungry, and for a second the only thing in the world was the heat of his skin under my mouth and the sound of his breathing coming apart.
I dropped to my knees. The hardwood was hard under my knees, but I barely registered it. My hands found his belt, worked it open with the same focused efficiency I brought to everything, and then his jeans were open and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and perfect.
I wrapped my hand around the base, gave him one slow stroke from root to tip, and watched his face do somethingcomplicated—jaw clenched, eyes half-closed, the expression of a man trying very hard not to come apart at the seams.
“You’re going to kill me,” he said. His voice was wrecked. “You know that, right? This is murder with extra steps.”
I almost smiled.
I didn’t.
Instead, I leaned forward and took him into my mouth. The taste of him was clean, salt-bright, the particular heat of skin that had been waiting. I moved with the same patience I applied to negotiations, to territory disputes, to the thousand other things I wanted badly enough to wait for.
Slow. Deliberate.
My tongue traced the length of him, flat and firm, and his hips rolled up against me without warning, his cock hitting the back of my throat. I didn’t pull back. I took it, let my throat open, and the sound he made was somewhere between a gasp and a curse, raw and completely undone.
His hand found the back of my head. Not pushing. Anchoring. His fingers twisted in my hair, grip tight enough to border on pain, and I welcomed it.
The rut hummed louder, the heat building behind my eyes, and every sound he made, every twitch of his hips, every ragged breath fed into it like fuel on a fire I had no interest in putting out.
I could feel him getting close. His breathing fractured. His thighs tensed under my hands. His cock pulsed against my tongue, and the small, broken sounds falling from his mouth were the kind that lived in the space between pleasure and desperation.
I wanted to take him over the edge. I wanted to watch him come apart on my tongue, wanted to taste every second of it, wanted to file the sound he’d make away in the part of my brain reserved for things I planned to revisit.
Instead, I drew back. Slow. Deliberate. My mouth left him with a wet sound that hung in the quiet room, and his cock jerked against the cool air, flushed and desperate and nowhere near finished.
He stared down at me. His chest heaved. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and the expression on his face was the particular mix of disbelief and raw want that did things to my self-control I wasn’t prepared to examine.
“You,” he said, voice shredded, “are a fucking menace.”
I stood. My knees protested. I ignored them. The rut pressed against the inside of my skin, a live wire running from my sternum to my cock, and the look on Jai’s face—sharp, wanting, completely fucking done with my patience—was almost enough to snap the last of my restraint.
Almost.
Not yet.
The lube was in the nightstand drawer. I’d put it there three days after Jai moved in, along with condoms I had no intention of using. The bottle was cold in my hand.
I warmed it between my palms, watching Jai from the edge of the bed where he’d stretched out on his back, one arm thrown above his head, chest still heaving, jeans open and pushed down to mid-thigh.
His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed and wet from my mouth, and the sight of him like that—spread out on my sheets, eyes dark, mouth parted—nearly undid me.
The rut pressed harder. The heat behind my eyes had graduated from pressure to something closer to pain, a dull, insistent throb that made the room feel two sizes too small.
My cock strained against my pants, hard enough to hurt, and the rational part of my brain—the part that still functioned when the rest of me was running on instinct—registered that I neededto go slow. That Jai was smaller than me in every dimension that mattered. That the rut turned careful into careless if I let it.
I didn’t plan to let it.
Not yet.
I slicked two fingers with lube, warm now, and reached for him, pulling his pants the rest of the way off. His thighs fell open without being asked. Trust, or recklessness, or the particular brand of courage Jai Flynn carried that made him look danger in the eye and ask it to hurry up.
