Ray's breath catches. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for me and stops himself. I look up at him from the floor of my own living room and it's not submission. It's a decision, and it's mine, and from down here I have all the power because he's going to stand there and take whatever I give him.
"Miles." His voice is rough. "You don't—"
"I know I don't have to." I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. His cock is hard, thick, flushed dark at the head, and the sight of it makes my mouth water in a way that surprises me. I've never wanted to do this before. Not really. The few times I tried in college were mechanical and forgettable. This isn't that. This is me, on my knees, wanting.
I wrap my hand around him and he exhales hard, his stomach tensing. He's big. I knew that — I've felt him inside me — but seeing him from this angle, holding him, my fingers not quite meeting around the shaft, it's different. I stroke him once, slow, learning the weight and the heat against my palm, the way the skin moves over the hardness underneath. Then I lean in and press my lips to the head of his cock and his whole body goes still.
I take him in. Just the head at first, my lips stretching around him, my tongue pressing flat against the underside. The taste is salt and skin and precome, bitter and clean. His thigh tenses under my free hand. Good. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, and he makes a sound — low, punched-out, like I've knocked the air from his lungs — and I do it again because that sound is exactly what I wanted.
I find a rhythm. Slow, deliberate, taking him a little deeper each time. My mouth is wet and I let it be — the slicker the better, and the obscene, slick sounds filling the silent apartment should embarrass me and don't. His grip lands on my shoulder, tight, and the effort he's making to hold still and not thrust is visible in every locked muscle. I don't want him to hold still. Not yet. But I want to earn the moment when he stops holding back.
I pull off and work the head with my tongue — slow circles, flat pressure, dipping into the slit and tasting the precome that's leaking steadily now. Then I take just the tip between my lips and suck and his hips jerk forward half an inch before he catches himself. His palm moves from my shoulder to the back of my head, not pushing, just resting there, and the weight of it on my skull does something to me. Anchors me. Makes the rest of the world go very far away.
I want to know what wrecks him. I use my tongue on the underside, tracing the vein from base to tip, and his thigh tenses under my hand. I take him deep and hollow my cheeks and the sound he makes goes straight to my cock. I wrap my hand around the base and twist while my mouth works the top half, my tongue swirling on every upstroke, and his head drops back against the wall and he says "oh fuck" in a voice I've never heard from him — high and surprised and completely undone.
I do that again. And again. Because the look on his face when I figure out what works is better than any performance review, better than Richard's approval, better than every pieceof professional validation I've chased for a decade. This is a different kind of competence and I am very, very motivated to excel at it.
I pull off and look up at him. Spit connects my lower lip to the head of his cock and I don't wipe it away. "You're shaking," I say. My voice is rougher than I expected.
"Yeah." He's breathing hard. "Your mouth is — fuck, Miles."
"Tell me." I stroke him slow while I talk, my thumb rubbing through the wetness at the tip. "Tell me what my mouth is doing to you."
"It's — I can't think. I can't—" He swallows hard. "You look insane right now. On your knees with your — with your lips all swollen and your — god, I want—"
"What do you want?"
"I want to be inside your mouth when I come," he says, and his voice cracks on it, like the honesty cost him something. "I want to feel your throat."
I take him back in and this time I push past where it's comfortable. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat and my body rebels — the gag reflex seizes and my eyes flood with tears and my throat constricts and for a second I can't breathe. I pull back, breathe, and push down again. The reflex is still there but it's weaker. I breathe through my nose and relax my jaw and take him deeper and my throat opens around him, tight and hot and stretched, and the moan Ray makes is guttural, desperate — worth every second of discomfort.
"Jesus — Miles — your throat, I can feel — fuck—"
He can't finish a sentence. His fingers tighten in my hair. I pull back until just the head is in my mouth, catch my breath, then take him deep again, past the resistance and into my throat, and this time I swallow around him. His whole body jerks. His hips stutter forward. The grip in my hair goes hard and I moanaround his cock because the sting of it shoots straight to my own aching dick and the vibration makes his thighs shake.
I set a new rhythm — deep into my throat, swallow, pull back to breathe, tongue the head, then deep again. My face is wet — tears from the effort, spit running down my chin, dripping onto my shirt. My jaw aches. My throat aches. I don't care about any of it. I care about the sounds he's making above me, the way his grip keeps tightening and loosening in my hair like he's fighting himself.
I pull off again. My lips are swollen and raw and there's a string of spit between us and I look up at him and he looks like he's about to die.
"Is this what you think about at work?" I ask. "When I'm talking about depositions and you're staring at my mouth?"
"Miles—"
"Because I've been thinking about this." I lick a slow stripe from base to tip and he groans. "I've been thinking about what you'd look like when you stopped being so fucking patient and just took what you wanted."
"I'm trying not to—" His hand is shaking against my skull. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle is jumping. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." I hold his eyes. "Stop holding back, Ray. I can take it."
I take him into my throat again and this time I don't pull back. I hold him there, swallowing around him, breathing through my nose, tears streaming, and I register the exact moment his restraint snaps.
His hips move. Not gentle. Not careful. He thrusts into my mouth and holds my head steady and the careful, considerate alpha I work with is gone. The first thrust hits my throat and I gag and his grip loosens — the instinct to protect, even now —and I grab his hip and pull him back in. I put his palm back on my head. I'm telling him with my body: don't stop.
He doesn't stop.
He fucks my mouth with short, hard strokes that push into my throat on every thrust. The sounds are obscene — wet, gagging, his cock sliding through spit and precome, his groans above me that are broken and animal. My eyes are streaming. Drool is running down my chin and my neck and soaking into my shirt. My jaw is screaming. My throat is raw. My cock is so hard in my pants that it hurts and nobody is touching it and I don't want anyone to because this, right here, is enough. Making him sound like this is enough.
I look up at him through wet eyelashes and he's looking down at me and his expression is something I've never seen — not tenderness, not lust, something more desperate. Like he's watching something precious break and can't stop it and doesn't want to stop it.