"Smooth."
"I'm very nervous. Give me a break."
He's nervous. This gorgeous, confident, man who reads fantasy novels and fixes bikes and once stared down a drunk at Murphy's without saying a word. He's nervous. About me.
I pull him toward the bed by his henley, the green one, the devastating one, the one I'm about to take off him. We fall onto it together, him catching his weight on his forearms, careful even now. His body over mine is solid and warm, grounding but not trapping.
"You're so beautiful," he says, looking down at me.
"So are you." I pull at his shirt. "Take this off."
He sits back, pulls it over his head. Lean muscle, a scattering of scars I want to learn the stories of, a trail of dark hair leading down from his navel. His body is lived-in. Not a gym body, not performative. A body that works on motorcycles and carries books and holds me tightly like I'm something valuable.
"My turn," he says, voice lower now.
He pushes my shirt up, and I lift so he can pull it off. The air is cool against my skin for one second before his hands are there, mapping my chest, my ribs, the dip of my waist. His thumbs brush over my nipples and I arch off the bed with a sound I didn't know I could make.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, and does it again. Deliberately. Watching my face.
"Silas —"
"I want to learn everything." He kisses my throat. My collarbone. The center of my chest. "Every sound you make. Every place that makes you react."
His mouth finds my nipple and I nearly come off the bed. His hand holds my hip, steadying me, and the combination, his mouth, his hand, the weight of him between my legs, is overwhelming in the best possible way.
"Please," I say. I'm not even sure what I'm asking for. Just more. Everything.
He kisses down my stomach, taking his time. Teeth grazing my hip bone, I gasp. Tongue dipping into my navel, I moan. His mouth sucking a mark just above my waistband, I arch into it, my hands tangling in his hair.
"Silas, please, I need —"
"What do you need?" His fingers hook into my jeans but don't pull. "Tell me."
"Your mouth." The words come out in a whisper, my face burning. "Want your mouth on me."
He works my jeans open slowly, pulls them down. I lift my hips and he takes everything, jeans, boxers, in one smooth motion.
The air on my skin. His eyes on me. I'm fully exposed and he's looking at me like I'm something extraordinary.
"Beautiful," he says, and the word sounds like a vow.
He starts slow. Kissing around the base, my inner thighs, everywhere except where I need him. The sounds I'm making are soft, desperate, beyond my control.
"Silas, please, stop teasing —"
He licks a stripe from base to tip and I cry out, hips jerking. His arm pins me gently, holding me still.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs against me. "Let me make you feel good."
He takes me in his mouth and the world narrows to the wet heat of him, the suction, the devastating thing he does with his tongue. My hands tighten in his hair, just holding on, anchoring myself, because without the grip I'd fly apart.
"Oh god." I breathe. "Oh fuck, Silas —"
He takes me deeper, hollowing his cheeks, pressing his tongue against the spot under the head that makes my vision blur. My thighs are shaking. Nobody has ever. I've never.
"So good," he pulls off to say, voice wrecked. "You taste so good, Dev."
"Silas, I'm — if you keep — I'm going to —"