“Now,” I said, hoarse. “Mouth. Slow. Let your tongue catch the bottom of it on the way down.”
He took me into his mouth. Slow. The drag of his tongue against the underside of the metal pulled a sound out of me I didn’t bother quieting. His free hand spread on my thigh, holding me steady. His other hand stayed flat over my heart. The wet of his mouth, the warmth, the way his lips dragged against the steel and the slick at my tip and the brown of myshaft, the way he took me a little deeper on every pass. The choreography of a man who’d been thinking about this on the subway and at his desk and in the shower for weeks.
“Teeth okay?” He pulled off enough to ask. His mouth was wet. His lips a deeper pink.
“Light. Just the metal. Not the skin.”
He took me back in and tested it. Light catch of teeth on the ring, a gentle tug as he pulled back. The metal moved against the head and the head of me kicked against the roof of his mouth and my head fell against the duvet. My voice cracked.
“Christ. Ellis.”
“Good?”
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
He didn’t stop. He worked me with the careful precision he brought to a sprint review and the quiet hunger he never showed. Tongue, then teeth, then tongue again. He kept his eyes on my face. I kept my hand in his hair. The amber from the candle moved across his cheekbone every time he breathed. Spit and pre-cum slicked his lips, ran wet down my shaft, pooled at the base where his free hand had moved to hold me steady. The wet sounds of his mouth on me were the loudest things in the room.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.” He pulled off a beat to say it. The head of my cock bumped his chin.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t a sex line. Wasn’t a punctuation. It came out of me whole and small, half a confession, half a thank-you for being patient on a thing that had taken me three years to let anyone touch.
He dropped his forehead against my hip and breathed.
“I love you, too.” Quiet. Into the skin at my hip. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
He took me back into his mouth and I came apart in pieces. Not the choreographed kind. The other kind. My hand fisted in his hair, my thighslocked around his shoulders, my voice went thin. He kept his rhythm steady and his eyes open and let me have it the whole way through. The first spill landed thick at the back of his throat. The second made him cough small and keep going. He swallowed what he could and the rest ran down my shaft and over his fist.
When I could move again, I tugged him up. He came up sticky, pink-mouthed, and a little dazed, my cum still wet at the corner of his lips, and I caught his face in both hands and kissed him hard, tasted myself on his mouth, didn’t let him pull back. The salt of me on his tongue. The wet on his chin. I dragged my thumb through it and licked the pad of my thumb clean while he watched me with his eyes blown.
“My turn.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’ve been wanting to.”
I’d been the one giving the directions for an hour. The one mapping his pace. Now I traded it. I tugged him by the hips and laid him back into the pillows where I’d been. I knelt between his thighs and put my hands flat on his hip bones and just looked at him.
He was beautiful like this. Long pale body laid out on the duvet, the geometric sleeve dark against the white sheets, the barbells at his nipples catching the candle. His cock stood against his stomach, longer than mine, leaner, the curve up clean and clear in the candlelight. The head of him was a deep pink, slick at the slit, the vein on the underside running visibly all the way down. His thighs were spread enough for me to fit between, the soft place where his hip met his thigh shadowed by the angle of the light.
“Stop staring.” His voice came hoarse.
“I’m doing my own research.”
He laughed, and the laugh broke when I lowered my mouth to him.
First time on him with my mouth. He was all warmth with the clean smell of his soap. I worked him slow because I’d been on the receiving end ten minutes ago and I knew what slow could do. I started where I’d toldhim to start. Skin first. Mouth at the base of him, lips closing around the soft skin where his shaft met his body, breath warm against him. Then up. Tongue along the underside vein. The taste of him was salt and clean skin and the faint metallic bite of pre-cum at the tip. His hand found my hair. Light. Not directing. Just there.
“Jett.”
“Mm.”
“Look at me.”
I looked up the line of his stomach to his face. The barbells caught the candlelight as he breathed. The sight of him with his mouth open and pink and his hand soft in my hair did something to me I’d only just learned to let happen.
