Page 208 of The Fall
Blair props himself up on his elbows, his gaze on me, and I grin before I lick a slow stripe from the base of his cock to the head.
“God, your tongue,” he groans.
I sink down, taking him in until his cock fills my mouth. I hollow my cheeks and suck until he swears, spit running from my lips and down his cock, pooling in his crotch. He groans so deep it vibrates through my jawbone.
“Jesus—Torey—fuck.” His voice fractures on the last word.
I want to map every inch of him, memorize each twitch and shudder, chase every gasp out of him until he’s wrecked.
My mouth and fist move in sync. I use my tongue on the underside, then suck him hard until he throws his head back against the pillow and his throat goes taut. I ease off and lick down his shaft to mouth at his balls, then nudge his knees farther apart with one shoulder. My lips keep moving lower.
His body opens by degrees: first his trembling thighs, then the tilt of his hips as he lifts one knee forward and lets me in. I taste the heat, breathe in his scent at the center of him.
We’ve made love countless ways over these two weeks: hard and desperate, slow and tender, laughing and playful, but there’s one thing we haven’t done, one final threshold we haven’t crossed.
I nuzzle into the cleft of his ass, inhaling before I press my mouth to his hole. He tastes incredible. Salty, sweet, intensely male. I want to devour him. Blair gasps, and he goes quiet as I circle his hole with my tongue. His hand searches for mine, fingers opening and closing until I thread our hands together.
“Don’t stop,” he whispers, almost no sound at all.
My tongue pushes deeper, circling his rim before dipping inside. I grip his ass with both hands, spreading him wider, diving deeper.
“God—” Blair chokes out, hips pushing against my face.
Spit runs down my chin as I eat him out, messy and hungry. When I push my tongue inside him again, he bucks against me, a moan tearing from his throat. His hands fist in the sheets, and each lick, each slow suck, each nibble on his rim draws out another broken sound.
I pull back to catch my breath. His hole glistens. I push my thumb against it, watching as it yields. “You want more?” I ask.
“Yes,” Blair whispers.
My cock throbs. “Turn over,” I breathe.
He exhales, his whole body shaking, and then turns as slow as tidewaters drawing back. On the way, he cups my cheek and drags me up to kiss him. His lips are greedy; he wants to taste himself on my tongue. “Torey…” He’s shaking.
I guide him until he’s on all fours for me. White sheets crumple under his knees, and sunlight falls across his salt-dusted skin. He’s beautiful, and his ass is perfect. He’s so solid everywhere, in his shoulders, his arms, in his thighs built to hold the line for a team, but right now he’s melting for me.
I kneel behind him and bury my face between his ass cheeks again. A scream catches in his throat.
He tastes of the ocean and of some deeper musk, a flavor I want to drown in. He shudders, a full-body tremble that runs through him and into me. His hips rock back, pushing himself more fully against my mouth. A low, wounded sound escapes him, ripped from his chest. He’s completely undone, and the sight of it, thesoundof it?—
I am wrecked by how much I want this man. I want him open for me, want to take him apart and put him back together until there’s no space left for his fears.
He reaches for the bottle of lube beside the pillow and passes it back, then drops his forehead into the crook of one arm. The gesture is so quiet, so full of trust.
My hand closes over the bottle. His fingers brush mine for a fraction of a second, hot and a little shaky. His back is tension and surrender, muscles shifting with each unsteady breath he draws. I slick my fingers, then gently, so gently, ease one in.
He groans, a long, drawn-out sound of surrender. The tight ring of muscle clenches around me, then gives way, softening with a sigh that feels ripped from him. I hold myself still, letting him grow accustomed to feeling me inside him. His heat is a brand. I move my finger slowly, a lazy circle against his walls, and his hips push back against my hand. His breath hitches.
“Another,” he begs.
I add a second finger, and his body relaxes as I curl them both.
“Right there,” he pants. “Right—fuck?—”
I massage that spot; his cock jumps. Pre-come drips onto the sheets below him. I add a third finger, stretching him wider. Every part of me strains toward him, toward his heat and salt and surrender.
“Tell me what you need.” I map the dip of his spine with my lips, count each vertebra with a kiss.
“You,” he begs. “You, Torey.”
