‘Wait,’ he starts.
‘No.’
Hands. Skin.
Three days. Ronan’s questions. The phone screen. The A glowed in the dark like an accusation—the weekend in someone else’s skin.
I need this. Ronan took it. The investigation, the library card, the phone, each wall taken apart and left in the light. And now I need it back. The only place I know how to take it: here. This flat, this man.
‘We should do something different today.’ I step back. Put a hand on his chest and push, not hard, just certain. ‘No toys. Words.’
His eyes, the calculation. The risk assessment that happens behind those glasses every time I propose something new.
‘What kind of words?’
‘The kind where you do exactly what I say.’
Silence. Outside, a car passes. Inside, the space between us is the width of a decision.
He nods, slowly. Already decided.
‘Kneel.’
One word, the air contracts.
Laurence hesitates. I see the fight, the professor, the man who commands rooms.
Then his knees hit the floor.
Christ.
The visual. I’m not ready for it. Laurence Haldrey on his knees in his own flat, looking up at me through those glasses, lips slightly parted, his hands resting on his thighs.
My cock is so hard it hurts. Hands stay locked at my sides. Not yet.
‘Undress me.’ My voice comes out steadier than it has any right to. ‘Slowly.’
His hands are on my belt. The buckle, the button, the zip, the same sequence I’ve done to him a dozen times, reversed. My jeans are around my ankles. His fingers hook the waistband of my boxers and pull down, him level with my cock, his breath warm against it.
‘Suck me like you mean it, Dr Haldrey.’
The title, in this room. On my lips while he receives me. The obscenity of it makes my knees buckle.
He takes me in, slow. Deliberate. He knows what I like; he’s learned it all. The flat of his tongue, then the tip, then deep, his hands on my hips gripping hard enough to mark.
I grab his hair, hold. Guide.
He moans around my cock, and the vibration nearly kills me. Fuck. I pull back, not yet.
‘Stand up. Bed. On your back.’
He does, I climb over him. Pin his wrists above his head with one hand; he could break the hold easily, but doesn’t.
Condom on. Lube. I reach down, position myself, and his hips tilt, the smallest possible movement upward. An opening, he asks without words.
I prepare him quick and then push in slowly. His wrists don’t move. His eyes don’t leave mine.
I fuck him with his wrists held. My pace, my angle. My decision is when to speed up, when to slow down, when to stop moving entirely, and let him feel the fullness without the friction until he’s swearing in Lancashire and his hips are trying to move, and I won’t let them.
