I smiled slightly. "Good."
I took him in hand, and the first feel of him, heavy, thick, already painfully hard, made my breath catch. His head tipped back.
"Christ."
That single raw word made my whole body throb.
I leaned in and tasted him in single, slow glide of my tongue from base to tip.
He bucked, a sharp, helpless thrust, and a broken sound escaped him. His fingers went white-knuckled around the bedpost, every ounce of discipline clearly costing him, and the sight of that ruthless self-command fraying at the edges was intoxicating enough that I took him properly into my mouth.
I set a rhythm, hands braced on his thighs, and focused on pulling him apart piece by piece.
There was a scar just above his knee, pale and neat, the kind that looked earned in fluorescent hospitals instead of back alleys.
I traced it once with my thumb, then kissed it without thinking.
His hand tightened on the bedpost.
“Careful,” he said roughly.
I looked up.
“Why?”
His stare went hot and strangely unguarded. “Because you have no idea what that does to me.”
The words seared through me.
I took him deeper just to hear what else I could drag out of him.
Then I noticed the tremor.
Not a sharp shudder of pleasure. Something smaller and more relentless than that, a fine, rhythmic shake in the leg I wasn't touching, the muscle tightening beneath my palm again and again.
I slowed.
His hand was still around the bedpost, his whole body locked in a stillness that suddenly looked like effort in more ways than one.
“Hey.” I stroked the skin just above his knee. “Look at me.”
He didn't open his eyes. "Don't stop."
"What do you need?"
"Nothing. It's fine. Just don't stop."
It wasn't fine. I realized the bracing against the bedpost wasn't only about letting me lead. Standing, maintaining balance while overwhelmed with sensation, was taking its toll. The shaking was getting worse.
"Lie down," I said. "On the bed."
His eyes opened. The frustration in them almost hurt.
I reached for my shirt and pulled it over my head before he could argue.
His gaze moved over me and there was nothing critical in it, just undisguised hunger, and something warmer underneath.
"The bed," I said again.
