"Ray — oh god, Ray, don't stop, please don't—"
I pull back just long enough to talk, my lips still brushing his skin. "I'm not stopping. I've got you." I press a kiss to his tailbone and then lick back down, my tongue flat and wet, and he shoves back against my face and I let him. I grip his hips hardenough that I know I'm leaving marks and I don't care. A growl is rumbling in my chest — low and constant, vibrating through my mouth into him — and I'm not doing it on purpose. I couldn't stop it if I tried.
I alternate between eating him out and pulling back to tell him what I'm thinking. I can't help it. The words just come out.
"You're dripping for me." I lick through the slick pooling between his thighs. "All of this for me."
He sobs into the pillow.
"I think about this all the time. What you'd taste like. What you'd sound like." I press my tongue back inside him and he clenches around me and his fingers fly back to grab my hair. "Better than anything I imagined."
I settle in. That's the only way to describe it — I stop thinking about what comes next and just give myself over to this. My mouth on him, my tongue working slow circles around his rim and then pressing inside, and the sounds he makes are the only feedback I need. Higher pitched when I hit the right spot. Desperate and broken when I press my tongue flat and lick. A sharp cry when I seal my lips around his hole and suck, just gently, and his hips jerk back against my face and I grip them and hold him where I want him.
I could do this for hours. I'm not exaggerating. The taste of him, the way he responds to every shift in pressure, the slick that keeps coming — my chin is wet with it and I don't care, I press in closer and lick farther in and he's shaking so hard the headboard is rattling against the wall.
"Oh god, oh fuck, Ray—" He's given up on sentences. He's given up on anything that isn't my name and swearing and these raw, wrecked sounds that are rewiring my brain. Every noise he makes burns away another layer of the Ray I thought I was — the easygoing fuckboy, the casual hookup guy — and replaces it withsomeone older and hungrier and more focused than I've ever been in my life.
I'm so hard it hurts. My cock is pressed against the mattress and I'm grinding into it without meaning to, rutting against the sheets like I have no control over myself, and I don't. I really don't. The growl in my chest is low and constant, and I can feel it vibrating through my tongue into Miles, and he clenches around me every time the sound hits him.
I pull my mouth away and he whines at the loss, actually whines, and I press my forehead against the base of his spine and breathe. My jaw aches. My cock aches. Everything aches and I want more.
"You have no idea," I say against his skin, and my voice is gone, just this low, destroyed thing. "You walk around in your suits and your ties being perfect and untouchable, and the whole time this was underneath. This. These sounds. Fuck, Miles, if anyone at that firm could see you right now—"
"Don't—"
"They'd lose their minds. I'm losing my mind." I turn my head and bite the curve of his ass, not hard, just enough to feel his skin between my teeth, and the sound he makes is so good I do it again on the other side. "I want to eat you out until you come on my tongue and then I want to fuck you and I want to hear you scream and I don't care who hears it."
His fingers reach back and grab my hair and pull, hard, and the sting of it goes straight to my cock and I groan against his skin.
I go back to work. Tongue flat, then pointed, then pressing inside. I learn what makes him shake versus what makes him cry out versus what makes him go silent and tense in that way that means he's close. I use all of it, pushing him up and then easing off, keeping him on the edge because I'm not ready to let himcome yet. Not like this. I want him wrecked. I want him so far past his own defenses that he never finds his way back.
I pull back and look at him. Really look. He's face-down, ass up, slick on his thighs and my spit on his skin and his fists gripping the headboard so hard his knuckles are white. His shoulders are shaking. He's crying — I can hear it, soft, not sad but overwhelmed, like he doesn't know what to do with this much sensation. The most controlled person I've ever met, and he's crying because someone is touching him like he matters.
The realization splits me open. I lean forward and press my lips to the small of his back, soft, and he shudders under me.
"I can't wait to be inside you," I say, and my voice cracks on it. "I keep thinking about what you're going to look like when I push my cock into you, how you're going to clench around me, how you're going to sound—"
He makes a noise that's almost a scream, muffled by the pillow, and he shudders everywhere. "Then do it," he gets out. "Stop talking about it and—"
"Not yet." I press my mouth to him again and he cries out and I lick into him wet and long and he shakes. "Not yet. I want you ready."
I bring my fingers up, slick from his thighs, and press one against his entrance alongside my tongue. He tenses — just for a second — and then I push in and he swallows my finger and moans so long and low it sounds like it's being pulled out of somewhere deep.
"That's it," I murmur against his skin. "There you go. You're so good, Miles. You're doing so good."
I work him open slow. One finger, crooking inside him, searching for the spot I know is there. I find it and he jerks like he's been shocked, going rigid, and I press there, steady, rubbing in slow circles while I keep licking around my own finger. The sounds he makes change — lower, more guttural, less controlled.His hips are moving in these small, involuntary rolls, pushing back against me, and I let him set the rhythm.
"More," he says, and it's barely a word. "More, please, I need—"
I add another finger and he hisses and I slow down. He's clenching. Clenching in a way that tells me it's been a long time since anyone has been here, if anyone has. The thought makes a fierce, possessive wave surge through me — I'm the one doing this, I'm the one he's letting in, I'm the first person to touch him like this in years, maybe ever like this, and I will die before I hurt him.
"Breathe for me."
He breathes. I feel him relax around my fingers, the tension easing, and I start moving again, spreading my fingers, stretching him open. He's so hot inside, slick and gripping and he keeps pulling at my fingers like he wants them farther. I press against that spot again and he makes a sound that's close to a sob and pushes back hard.
"Yeah, right there?" I curl my fingers and press and he nods frantically into the pillow. "I've got you. I'm going to make you feel so good. You're going to take my cock so well, Miles, I can already tell, you're going to be so perfect around me—"
His fist slams against the headboard and he says something that might be a prayer or might be a threat, I can't tell, and I'm grinding against the mattress and leaking everywhere and my own control is a joke. I'm an alpha in rut, basically. That's what this is. His heat triggered it in me and I'm operating on instinct and the instinct is: take care of him, worship him, fuck him until neither of us can move.