He buries his face fully in the pillow with both arms over his head and lets out a sound that's half a sob and half a laugh and entirely furious. I crawl up his back, slow, dragging my mouth across his spine, and reach over him to pluck the phone off the bed.
I set it face-down back on the nightstand.
"Atlas," he says. Muffled. Wrecked. "Atlas, I am going to—I am going tokillyou—"
"Mm. Where were we, sweetheart?"
He turns over under me, his face red, his mouth open, his eyes wet from holding it in. He looks at me from beneath me with a mix of murder and adoration that I'd put on my list of best things I've ever earned.
"You," he says, "are insane."
"Yes."
"I will never be able to speak to my mother again."
"You did beautifully."
"You are not—Atlas Graves, you are not laughing right now—"
I am, in fact, laughing.
Twice in one evening—I can't remember the last time. I bury my face in his neck and laugh, real, low, against the bite mark I set into weeks ago, and his hand comes up into my hair and fists in it, and I hear him laughing too, helpless, into the side of my head. We laugh together for a long time.
When I lift my head he's grinning. Full. Open. The careful nothing nowhere on his face.
"Now," he says. Soft. His hand at my jaw. "Where were we?"
I take him apart the way I promised.
His cock is flushed dark against his stomach, thick, leaking pearled precum down its own length. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wet. His thighs fall open for me without asking.
I take a beat just to look at him. He twists his head against the pillow so he can see me.
Hair stuck damp to his forehead. Mouth bitten red. Bond mark at his throat blood-bright. His cock twitching every few seconds like his body can't tolerate not being touched.
"Atlas—"
"Shh. I know."
I crawl down between his thighs. Push them wider with my palms, slow, watching his face. Press a kiss to the inside of one knee. Then lower. The crease where his thigh meets his hip. Then lower still. He's making small unconscious sounds, hips rolling off the duvet trying to find friction. I pin his hips down firm with one forearm across his pelvis.
"Don't move."
"Atlas—"
"Don't. Move."
He goes still under my arm. Whimpering. Trembling. His cock leaking another fat bead of precum that slides down the underside.
I lean in and lick it off.
He sobs.
I drag my tongue up the underside of him from the base to the tip, slow, taking my time. The taste of him goes through me. I close my lips just over the head of him and suck—gentle at first, almost lazy, my tongue working the slit, gathering theprecum still beading there. His thighs shake on either side of my head.
"Atlas, please—"
"Mm?"
