I painted him across my bottom lip before sucking it fully into my mouth, groaning as the taste of him burst across my tongue.
“Now take my cock out.” I ordered.
Need flared beneath his glossy eyes as he reached for me, yanking at the belt I wore with a frustrated growl.
The sound of my zipper falling made me groan, and then he was there, delving his fingers in the coarse curls above my cock.
Impatience got the better of me, and I reached downward, shoving my goddamn briefs out of the way.
Only then did he wrap his hand around my shaft and pull.
Lust shot straight to my balls, buzzing through the rest of me like a live wire.
Grinding into his fist, I dropped my forehead to his. The arm holding me over him shook with effort, but I ignored it when his plump lips quivered, beckoning me.
I surrendered, pressing my mouth to his and pulling his needy little whimpers straight down my throat.
“Wrap your hand around us both, baby.” I whispered between kisses. “I bet we feel fucking perfect together.”
“Henry.”
His chest knocked against mine, kisses fervent as he wrapped his palm around us both, squeezing lightly with each stroke.
“I was born to be touched by you,” he vowed.
I grabbed his chin and turned his face, ghosting my lips over the shell of his ear. “Fuck yes, you were.”
Back arching, he doubled his efforts, thrusting his hips in time with his strokes, chasing a pleasure so deep, it threatened to pull me apart by the seams.
Sweat rolled down the column of his throat, and I buried my nose in the spot, inhaling deep.
Pulling away from him, I rose to my knees. He jerked up, my absence like a bucket of cold water against his otherwise heated skin. A wounded, desperate sound pulled deep from his chest, and he reached for me with grabby hands.
“Come back,” he pleaded, and fuck if it wasn’t a punch straight to the lungs.
“Sweetheart.” I popped a kiss between his brows before sliding off the table completely. “I want to taste you.”
Straightening, I put space between us for the first time since I’d tore him from his chair.
Just enough to take him in fully—flushed skin, color breaking unevenly across his chest and throat in warm, spreading patches.
My loafers scraped faintly against the floor as I stepped back, shifting position at the head of the table. Wood bit under my palm when I braced myself there for half a second, and then my knees hit the floor with a quiet, solid thud.
Both hands closed around his ankles, thumbs pressing into warm skin as I dragged him across the table.
His body followed the pull, hips shifting and legs yielding beneath my hands.
My fingers shifted at his ankles, steadying him first before working his shoe with quiet precision. Laces came undone one by one, slow enough to make him choke with anticipation.
His foot flexed in my grip, and I tightened my hold just enough to still him before slipping the shoe free and setting it aside. The second followed the same way.
My palms slid upward again, slower this time, dragging along the length of his calves and over the tension in his thighs. Slipping my fingers below his waistband, I tugged, tossing his pants over my shoulder, until nothing stood between my hands and the heat of him.
“Spread your legs for me, baby.”
Archie shoved his legs wide without hesitation, heels braced against the table’s edge, muscles tensed and waiting.
Obedient.