"I want this," I say, my voice steadier now. "I want you. I want to please you, to feel in control for once. To choose what happens to my body."
He sits back down on the couch, settling into the cushions, his legs spread slightly. "Then you have control. You can do everything you want to me. Whatever you want, however you want it. What are you going to do with that power, Claire?"
The question sends heat flooding through my body. I slide off the couch and kneel between his legs, my hands moving back to his belt. This time he doesn't stop me. The buckle comes undone easily, and I unbutton his jeans, pulling the zipper down.
"Lift up," I murmur.
He does, and I pull his jeans down to his ankles. He's wearing grey boxers that do absolutely nothing to hide his erection straining against the fabric, thick and hard.
I look up at him, finding his eyes locked on me, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. He's letting me lead, giving me the control I asked for.
My hand moves to palm him through the boxers, and he groans, his head falling back against the couch.
"Fuck, Claire."
The curse sounds good in his mouth. Real. Not the calculated cruelty Derek used to wield words like weapons, but genuine reaction, genuine need.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and perfect. Bigger than Derek's, which shouldn't matter but somehow does. Because this is mine. My choice. My control.
I wrap my hand around him, feeling the heat of him, the weight. His hips jerk slightly at the contact.
"Jesus," he breathes.
I stroke him once, twice, watching his face. His eyes are closed now, his jaw tight, his hands gripping the couch cushions like he's trying to ground himself.
"Look at me," I say.
His eyes snap open, meeting mine. There's something vulnerable in that gaze, something that makes my chest tight.
"I want to taste you," I tell him. "Can I?"
"Christ, yes." The words come out strangled. "Whatever you want. Take whatever you want."
I lean forward, my tongue darting out to lick the tip of him. He tastes clean, slightly salty, masculine. His whole body tenses.
"Claire—"
I don't let him finish. I take him into my mouth, wrapping my lips around the head of his cock and sucking lightly.
The sound he makes is everything. Deep and broken and needy. His hand moves to my hair, not pushing or pulling, just resting there like he needs to touch me.
I take him deeper, working my way down his length, using my hand for what I can't fit in my mouth. I've done this before. Derek demanded it regularly, but this feels different. This feels like a gift I'm choosing to give, not a service I'm required to perform.
Tom's breathing is ragged now, his hips moving slightly, trying to stay still but unable to help himself. I look up at him while I work, watching his face contort with pleasure, and feel powerful in a way I never have before.
"God, your mouth," he groans. "So fucking good."
I hum around him in response, and his hips buck involuntarily. His hand tightens slightly in my hair.
"Sorry," he gasps. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"
I pull off him just long enough to say, "Don't apologize. I like it. I like seeing what I do to you."
Then I take him deep again, deeper than before, relaxing my throat the way I learned years ago. His cock hits the back of my throat and he curses, long and creative.
"Claire, I'm not going to last if you keep—fuck—"
Good. I want him to lose control. Want to be the one who makes him come apart. I speed up my movements, sucking harder, using my tongue along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is coming in pants now, his whole body tensing.
