His finger glides over the crease of my knuckle, I drag mine back the other way, accepting whatever invitation this is. And with it, I let him take the lead.
It feels natural, like an intimate Sunday morning ritual we’ve been doing for ages.
We've hit a point of no return, but I want it. I want it more than anything. He makes me feel things I thought I’d lost for good. I close my eyes and let myself feel everything.
The soft kisses on my seventh cervical vertebra, the tightening of his arm against my chest as he presses his hard pulsing cock against my tailbone.
A soundless gasp rips out of me.
He’s got me like a violin in his hands. Fingers skating over my abs, pressing into my hip, dragging torturously slow down the dark trail below my navel until I’m biting back sounds I don’t want him to hear.
He lifts the elastic of my waistband, smoothly sliding his hand inside.
Fingers find the tip of my cock, smearing, circling through precum, sliding down to take me in his grip.
My hips jerk, my breaths turning shallow and uneven. My head tips back against his shoulder, and he rewards me with more kisses, delicate little flicks of his tongue behind my ear. Soft bites. Gentle suction around my helix piercing.
My whole body catches fire. I grow hard in his hand, trapped in my boxers, tortured by the thin stretch of fabric straining against me.
I shove the fabric down just enough to ease the tightness, my cock still in his hand.
I rock back to grind against his hardness, a bolt move to see how he will react. He moves with me, pressing into the curve of my ass. A slow push and give.
Mutual pressure and release. Found rhythm. His heavy breathing turning into a series of feral grunts.
God, I can’t. I just can’t. I feel myself thicken and quiver in his grip, my orgasm rising.
“Tom…” My voice breaks in a strangled moan of his name and I come hard.
I come so fucking hard. Over his hand, in the sheets. A spurt even makes it to my braid.
In the endless seconds that follow, he keeps draining me, kissing my jawline, grinding against my entrance, praising me softly by telling me I’m doing so good for him. Then the whispering stops and the rambling begins.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He reaches over me, grabbing for the tissue box on the nightstand.
I turn. He gasps softly and whines on the exhale, coming into the crumpled pieces of paper, eyes closed, face scrunched tight.
My jaw drops as I watch him finish in his own hand. Not on me, not in the sheets, not even holding it back—If that was an option—so I could return the favor.
In zombie mode, I offer a couple more tissues.
“Funny, you don’t just handing out tissues in your office,” he says, first proper sentence this morning.
I’m left staring at him. I simply have no words at this point.
A thousand thoughts are racing through my head, and none of them are confident, nor reassuring.
He wipes the last traces from his hand, tosses the tissues aside, and drops back onto the mattress with a content grin.
What the fuck have I done? Is this some twisted power play? Did I just fall into his trap? For him to break me and prove he’s the one in control and always has been? I feel so naive.
“Don’t do that,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Overthink. Did it feel good?”
I stay quiet because I’m not sure what he will do with my answer.
