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“You keep telling me that.” I soothe the sting with my tongue, the piercing cool against his heat, and feel him jerk. “And yet.”
I reach the first button of his shirt and open it slowly.
One button. Kiss.
His chest heaves as I work my way down, watching his face exactly as I said I would. The flush crawling down his throat. The way his stomach jumps when my knuckles graze it.
“Look at you,” I murmur against his skin. “Falling apart, and I’ve barely started.”
“I’m not—” Second button. His head drops back. “—falling apart.”
“No?” Third. I spread the shirt open and drag my thumb over one taut nipple.
He makes a sound like it’s been punched out of him, hips rolling up against me, chasing the friction.
“Your body’s a terrible liar, stormbird. It’s the most honest thing about you.”
I strip the shirt from his shoulders and down his arms, letting it fall beside the bed before taking him in. Pale skin. A narrow waist. A body that looks almost fragile until you notice the muscle the mines have left across his stomach and shoulders. Then my gaze drops to where his erection pulls tight against his trousers.
“Fuck me. Already so pretty, and I haven’t even unpacked all of you yet.”
Sitting back on my heels, I open my own shirt. His eyes track every button. He might hate himself for watching, but he watches anyway, wetting his lower lip before he catches himself.
“You want to touch me.” I pull the shirt open. “Go on. Tell me what you want.”
He keeps his hands fisted at his sides. Stubborn to the last.
So I take his mouth again. While I nip at that delectable lower lip, I work his trousers open and free his erection into my hand, pulling a wrecked sound from his throat.
Fucking sweet.
He’s leaking already, slick at the tip. I drag my thumb through it, bring it to my mouth and lick it off with a hum. “Hm. Tasty. Been like this all night for me, haven’t you?”
His pupils are blown, the green of his irises reduced to thin rings. “I hate you,” he breathes.
“Yeah, I can see that.”
I get my own cock out, hard enough to hurt, then fit us together in one hand. The contact pulls a groan from both of us.
“Why don’t you show me? Spit.”
He blinks up at me. “What?”
“You heard me. Show me how much you want this and spit in my hand.” I hold my palm between us. “Unless you’d rather I do this dry. I’m happy to, but you won’t like it nearly as much, and tonight I want you to enjoy it. I insist on it, actually.”
His eyes flash. “You fucking love this, don’t you? Making me do shit just to watch me squirm.”
“I do.” I give him one slow stroke. “You do too. That’s what’s upsetting you.”
His jaw works. Eyes locked on mine, cheeks burning, he leans up and spits into my palm.
“Good pet.”
I add my own to it until it’s filthy, warm, and fucking perfect, then wrap that slick hand around both of us and stroke slowly, root to tip.
“Asher—” He comes up on his elbows, wild-eyed. “What—”
I reach for the bedside drawer and pull it open, feeling for the bottle without looking because looking means taking my eyes off him, and I’m not doing that.
