“Yes,” I whisper, “I trust you.”
Atticus drops to his knees in front of me, catching my eye. “Then can I show you? Can I touch your hard, hot body and remind you of just how beautiful you are?”
He’s asking me a question, but it’s not one I struggle with. He already knows what my answer will be and how easy it is to push it out.
“Y-yes.”
His warm, calloused fingers run up and over my cheek, pulling a shudder from my body.
“Mhm, that’s right,” he mutters. “Tremble for me, sweetheart. Let me see how easily just the tips of my fingers tear you apart.”
“Please,” I find myself begging, though I can’t find it within myself to feel embarrassed, not when I know how much he loves the sound. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you,” he insists, smirking.
“More. Touch me more,” I breathe out.
And he does. Atticus brushes his lips over my jaw, his opposite hand running gently over my hardened nipples.
“Like this, baby?” he purrs. I nod, unable to form words as his hot breath fans my face. “Hands behind your back. If you’re good, I’ll make you come.”
Shoving my hands behind myself, resting them over the small of my back, I prepare myself for the pleasure he deals. And he wastes no time.
Pushing my back against the cushions, Atticus settles between my spread legs.
“Such a pretty baby,” he coos. “Always so obedient.”
He doesn’t hesitate, urging me to lift my hips so that he can grab my basketball shorts and my briefs and pull them down, freeing me.
I’m embarrassingly hard and wet, angrily pulsing in anticipation. My body is flushed, and as he drags his hands up the sensitive skin of my upper thighs, I practically whine.
“You’re weeping for me,” Atticus says, observing me closely. “Already so deliciously excited.”
He’s right. Always so fucking right.
I’m beyond excited, having waited two days for this. I’ve spent every time I’m not with him touching myself, dreaming of this exact moment. The moment when my brain shuts off and all that’s left is him.
On repeat in my mind is Atticus, Atticus, Atticus.
And as if he can read my desperation from my panting breath alone, delving into my psyche and finding exactly what I need, he leans down and swallows me whole.
“S-shit!” I shout, the feeling of his hot, wet mouth overwhelming me.
Atticus groans, the vibrations sending little spikes of pleasure through my skin, before he tongues my slit, tasting me at the source.
I fucking love it. I love how he seems just as desperate as I am; dying for just a taste, a singular shared moment, a forever I’m not ready to ask for.
His tongue is like magic, massaging into my hard length and shoving me deeper and deeper between his lips.
He’s feeding himself, taking what he wants from me as I writhe and moan above him. And it’s fucking intoxicating.
“You’re divine,” Atticus mutters against the head of my dick. “So fucking delicious.”
Atticus rarely ever curses. I think I can count on my fingers alone the times I’ve heard it. But every once in a while, when he’s so clearly overwhelmed with the things he’s doing to me, or I’m doing to him, he’ll spit one out.
As if he can’t stand it. As if the lust and emotion building inside of him are so great, so all-consuming, that he can’t help but lessen himself morally and curse aloud.
I’m doing this to him. I’m fraying his notorious control, one gasp, one plea at a time.
