Page 36 of False Catch

"I want to. I've wanted to since that day on the bus." I slide off the counter, legs still shaky. "Will you let me?"

His pupils are blown wide, only a ring of brown visible. "Fuck. Yes. God, yes."

I sink to my knees on the kitchen tile, looking up at him. He looks wrecked already, just from the sight of me here. I tug his waistband down, freeing him, and his cock springs heavy into my hand. He’s flushed, thick, already slick at the tip. I stroke him once, slow, savoring the way his mouth falls open.

"Christ," he breathes as I wrap my hand around him. "Your hands are so small."

"Good thing I have a mouth too," I say, then lean forward and take him in.

Zane's hand flies to the counter for support, his other threading gently through my hair. He doesn't push, doesn't demand, just holds on as I work him with lips and tongue and just a hint of teeth.

His taste floods me—salty, hot, intoxicating. I swirl my tongue over the head, then slide down inch by inch until he hits the back of my throat. His fingers thread through my hair, not pushing, just trembling with restraint.

"Fuck, Reese. Your mouth... Jesus, how are you so good at this?"

I pull back to answer. "I like it. Always have. Like the weight, the taste, the way guys fall apart."

"You're going to kill me," he groans as I take him deep again. "The whole team is going to die and it'll be your fault."

I hum around him and his hips jerk, the sound vibrating through him. He nearly loses it, teeth grit as he tries not to thrust deeper, but I grip his thighs and set the pace, working him with lips and tongue, taking him farther each time until tears sting my eyes.

"Close," he warns, tugging gently at my hair. "Reese, I'm—"

I don't pull away. Instead, I swallow him to the base, throat flexing, and that’s it. He comes with a guttural groan, spilling down my throat. I hold him there, milking every last shudder, until he finally slumps back against the counter, chest heaving.

He stares down at me like I'm some kind of miracle.

When I rise, he drags me into a kiss without hesitation, tasting himself on my tongue like it’s nothing, like it’s everything. His hands are still shaking as they frame my face.

We stay locked together, breathing hard, foreheads pressed, the kitchen thick with the smell of sex and simmering soup.

"Fuck," Zane mutters against my mouth. "I can taste both of us now."

"Good," I say, and his eyes darken.

"We should probably talk about this," he says, but his hands are sliding down to cup my ass, pulling me against him.

"Tomorrow," I say. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." He kisses my neck, right where it meets my shoulder. "Tomorrow Coach Torres starts watching us."

"Then we better be careful."

"Or," he says, voice dropping as he nibbles my ear, "we could just let them all know you taste better than anything I've ever cooked."

"Zane."

"What? It's true." His hand is in my hair, his lips on my throat, and his hips flex against mine. "Could eat you out for hours. Will, if you let me."

Heat floods through me again despite just coming on his face. "Promises, promises."

"Oh, sunshine." His grin is wicked now, not his usual golden retriever smile. "That's not a promise. That's a warning."

He steps back, adjusting himself in his sweatpants where he's already getting hard again. "Want some soup? I'm actually starving now."

The casual shift while we're both still flushed and breathing hard makes me laugh. "Sure."

We eat soup at 2 AM, but the air between us is charged. Every time our eyes meet, his gaze drops to my mouth. I deliberately lick my spoon and watch his jaw clench.