Page 67

"You can put them in my hair," I tell him around his cock. "Or on my shoulders. Wherever you want. Just don't push."

His fingers slide into my hair carefully, like he's afraid he'll break something. I hum in approval and take him deeper, letting the head nudge the back of my throat. He makes a low, broken sound and his hips twitch once before he forces them still.

I work him with long, steady strokes of my mouth, using my hand on what I can't fit. Spit runs down his shaft and over my fingers. Every time I pull off to breathe I tell him something.

"You're so hard for me."

"That's it. Just feel it."

"You're doing so good, letting me take care of you."

His thighs are shaking under my palms. His grip in my hair tightens and loosens in time with the bob of my head. When I look up, his face is open in a way I've never seen—mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, the careful captain gone.

I pull off with a wet pop and stroke him slowly with my fist instead.

"I want you to do this to me next," I say. "I'll show you how. You okay with that?"

He nods, breathing hard. "Yeah. Rémy—yeah."

I stand, shove my own jeans and underwear down, and kick them away. My cock is flushed and aching. I climb onto the bed and sit back against the headboard, legs spread.

"Come here. On your knees between my legs."

He moves stiffly at first, like his body is still catching up to the instructions. Then he settles between my thighs, hands braced on the mattress on either side of my hips. His face is close enough that I can feel his breath on my stomach.

"Start with your hand," I tell him. "Like this." I wrap his fingers around me and show him the pressure I like—firm, not too tight, a twist at the top. He follows. His hand is big and a little clumsy at first, but he learns fast.

"Good. Now lean down and put your mouth on the head. Just the head. Taste it."

He does. The first wet heat of his mouth makes my hips jerk. He freezes for half a second, then settles, licking experimentally under the ridge.

"That's perfect," I murmur. "Now take a little more. Use your tongue. You don't have to take all of it. Just what feels good."

He sinks lower, careful, and the warm slide of his mouth is almost too much. His free hand rests on my thigh, fingers digging in. I card my fingers through his hair the same way he did to me.

"You're doing so well," I tell him. "Look at you. On your knees for me. Taking what I give you."

A low sound vibrates around my cock. He pulls off just enough to speak, voice rough and wrecked.

"I've never been told what to do like this."

I keep my hand in his hair, gentle. "And?"

"I like it." The admission comes out quiet, almost surprised. "I really fucking like it."

Something hot and bright opens in my chest. I guide him back down.

"Then keep going. Slow. Let me feel your tongue."

He does. He's messy at first—too much teeth once, too shallow the next—but every time I correct him he adjusts without argument. I praise him for every improvement. His eyes stay on my face whenever he can, checking, learning. When I start to rock up into his mouth in small, careful thrusts, he opens wider and takes it.

"Rémy," he says when he pulls off to breathe, spit-slick and red-mouthed. "Tell me what you need."

"Keep your hand moving. Suck a little harder on the upstroke. Yeah—just like that."

He follows. The wet sounds fill the quiet gray room. My thighs start to shake. I warn him when I'm close and he doesn't pull away; he stays right there, eyes locked on mine, and lets me come in his mouth. Some of it spills down his chin. He swallows what he can, looking a little stunned, a little proud.

I haul him up the bed and kiss him hard, tasting myself on his tongue. He kisses back like he's starving for it. We end up on our sides facing each other. I reach between us and wrap my hand around his cock again—still hard, neglected while he focused on me. He jerks into my fist with a broken sound.