"Please—I need—"
I pop my lips off the head of his perfect fucking cock to tease him. "Tell me what you need."
"Your mouth—"
"It's on you, sweetheart."
"Deeper—Atlas, please, deeper—"
I let him have it.
I take him deep in one slow controlled slide, all the way to the back of my throat, and his whole body bows up off the bed under my arm. The sound he makes is wrecked. I hold him there for a beat—just a beat, long enough for him to feel it—and then I start to move. Slow at first. Drag my mouth up the length of him, suck the head, sink back down.
Again.
Again.
Building him.
His hand finds my hair. Fists in it. Doesn't push, doesn't pull, just holds.
I pick up the pace. Hollow my cheeks. Take him deeper each time. His belly is trembling under my forearm. His other hand has fisted in the duvet. He's making a continuous broken sound, half whimper, half my name, syllables blurred together. The bond between us is roaring—I can feel his pleasure as a second pulse in my chest, the building heat of it, the tightening at the base of his spine.
"Atlas—Atlas, I'm—I'm gonna—"
I take him deeper. Swallow around him on the next slide down.
He breaks.
His hand fists tight in my hair and he comes with my name on his tongue, hips fighting the arm pinning him, cock pulsing on my tongue and down my throat in long thick spurts. I take all of it. Swallow every pulse. Keep my mouth on him soft and gentle as he shudders through the aftershocks, working him through it until he's twitching at the oversensitivity and trying weakly to push my head off.
I let him slide free of my mouth.
He's gasping. Wrecked. One arm flung over his eyes. His cock half-hard already against his belly, flushed pink, slick with my spit.
I crawl back up his body and press a kiss to his mouth—let him taste himself on my tongue—and he moans into it.
But I don't let him rest.
I sit back on my heels between his thighs.
He's looking up at me dazed, mouth still parted, lips swollen from biting them through the call. I undo my belt, lower my zipper and free myself. My cock is heavy and aching, neglected for the better part of an hour, the head dark and slick. I take myself in hand. Stroke slow. Watch his eyes track the movement.
"Sit up, baby."
He sits up. Wobbly. Slow. His chest is still heaving. The duvet's bunched under him. I move up the bed, settle back against the headboard, legs spread, and pat the duvet between my thighs.
"Come here. On your knees."
He crawls. Slow. Eyes up. He's never moved at me like that before—languid, drunk on pleasure, the careful wariness completely gone—and the bond between us flares so hard I have to take a breath.
"That's it. Right here."
He settles between my thighs. Sits back on his heels. Looks at my cock. Looks up at me. Bites his bottom lip.
I cup the back of his head. Slide my fingers through his hair. Tip his face up so he has to keep his eyes on me.
"Hands behind your back."
