"Do you want it to be?"
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smirk, but close. Like he knows exactly what I'm doing and he'll let me do whatever I want.
"I want whatever you're willing to give me."
Whatever I'm willing to give.
But eight years is a long time to unlearn. Eight years of making myself small, of learning that wanting things only made them hurt worse when they didn't happen. My fingers hover instead of grip.
I stroke him slowly, base to tip, relearning the feel of him, the way he twitches when I run my thumb across the head. Hiships buck before he catches himself, thighs trembling with the effort of staying still.
"Eyes on me."
His gaze locks onto mine. Dark, desperate, absolutely focused.
Do it.
Cole doesn't push. Doesn't pull. Just watches me with those dark eyes, waiting for whatever I decide to do next.
I lower my mouth and take him in.
The sound he makes, wrecked, broken, something between a groan and a prayer, makes my pussy throb. I take him deeper, feel him hit the back of my throat, and his hands tighten on the headboard hard enough that the wood creaks.
This. This is what I need.
I'm not hiding in darkness, not lying still, not being grateful for scraps.
I'm taking.
I work him with my mouth and hand together, setting a rhythm designed to destroy. Japanese starts bleeding through his English, fragments I don't understand, prayers or curses or both, the careful control he wears like armor finally cracking under my hands.
"Yamete—" His hips jerk. "If you don't stop, I'm going to—"
I pull off. Look up at him.
He's shattered. Chest heaving, cock twitching, eyes wild with need. A bead of moisture trails down his length.
The man underneath me is nothing like the boy from college. Harder. Scarred. Built like a weapon.
And mine. Right now, completely mine.
My hands trace down his chest. Over ridges of muscle that weren't there twelve years ago. The starburst scar on his ribs. His stomach contracts under my touch, breath catching.
"Please." The word costs him something. Everything. "Let me touch you."
He said please.
Adrian never said please. Adrian took and demanded and criticized and never once in three years asked for anything, because asking would have meant acknowledging that I had the power to refuse.
"No." I climb back up, straddle his stomach with my wetness pressed against his abs. "Not yet."
The frustration on his face is beautiful.
"I want your mouth." My voice doesn't waver. "On me. Now."
He stops breathing.
I shift higher, positioning myself over his face. Close enough that he can feel the heat, see the evidence of how much this is affecting me.