"Cole,cazzo, non posso, I'm—"
My lips seal around the head. My tongue flattens, pressing the barbell there, holding him in that raw, sensitive spot. My hand moves faster, twisting, pumping.
He comes. His spine bows off the mattress, a sharp, beautiful arch. My name breaks out of him in pieces. The sound goes straight through me.
I swallow. Keep stroking. Gentle now. Working him through it until the tremors subside and his body collapses onto the bed, boneless and spent.
He lies there breathing hard, staring at the ceiling like he's seeing something else entirely.
Then his hand finds my hip. Pulls. I roll onto my back beside him. His jaw resets.
"Your turn," he says, his voice wrecked, hoarse.
"I'm good."
"You're hard enough to cut glass and you're telling me you're good."
"I said—"
His hand closes around me through my sweats. The pressure is immediate, precise, perfect. My head falls against the pillow, a groan tearing from my throat.
"That's what I thought," he says, a low, satisfied rumble.
He moves over me. His hand frees me from the fabric and his grip firms, bare skin on skin now, his thumb sliding over the head on each stroke, a slick, maddening friction. His other hand finds my throat. The weight of his palm on my pulse.
His mouth drops to my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "You shoved me against a wall tonight," he says, low, controlled. "You pinned my wrist. You made me say please." His hand twists, a clever, devastating motion, and my hips jerk off the mattress, a helpless response. "Remember who you come to. Remember whose room this is."
The pressure builds fast, too fast, because I've been wound up since I shoved him against the wall, since the dining hall, since I watched him watch her. His hand works me while his mouth finds the tendon in my neck. Teeth pressing just enough threat to make my breath hitch. His palm still on my throat, a brand.
"You've been thinking about this all day," he says against my neck, his voice a dark, knowing whisper. "The dining hall. The locker room. This."
"Yes." The word is a gasp, stripped bare.
His hand twists again, his thumb circling the head, and my breath fractures into pieces.
"What else?" he says. Low. Pressing. The way he presses on the ice when he knows there's a gap in the defense.
My mouth opens. The word comes out before my brain can clear it, before I can stop it, a raw, honest confession.
"Her."
One syllable. My eyes squeeze shut.
His hand stops for one beat. One frozen, endless second. His breath changes against my neck, a sharp intake, then a controlled exhale. Then his grip goes harder than before, and he keeps going. Faster. Rougher. He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't ask. Doesn't acknowledge. Works me harder.
When I come, his mouth is at my throat and his grip is merciless, wringing every last shudder from my body. My face presses into the sweat-damp skin of his shoulder. The sound that breaks out of me is quiet.
Afterward, his hand finds mine in the dark. Our shoulders touch, sweat cooling on our skin. The silence sits between us.
"Where did that come from?" he asks, his voice hoarse, stripped raw.
"I don't know."
"Liar."
"Yeah."
Silence settles, dense and charged. His thumb traces slow, absent circles in my palm, a touch that feels more like a question than comfort.
