Page 95 of Beyond the Lines
But he’s more than that. This is the guy who criticized my art. Who lied about being on the hockey team. Who made me feel things in that bathroom I promised myself I’d never feel again after Chris. Who is Mike’s teammate and his best friend.
But he’s also the guy who I talked with until three in the morning on the first night I met him. The guy who gave me his jacket not once, but twice. The guy who pulled me out of a bad situation with Ben. The guy who refused to take advantage of me last night.
He’s like my yin and my yang all at once.
I can’t work, can’t sleep, and can’t think about anything but him.
That leaves one idea.
Part of me wants to wake him gently. To thank him for being a gentleman. To have an actual conversation about whatever this is between us. But talking is what got us into this mess. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to heartbreak.
I’ve been down that road with Chris, and I’m not eager for a repeat.
No, what we need is something simpler.
Something more primal. Like what we started in the bathroom but never got to finish before we were interrupted. Something to burn through this attraction like a controlled forest fire, leaving nothing but ashes and no chance of another spark igniting a wildfire.
After studying his face for another moment, and telling myself that Icanfuck away the attraction like Em said, I slide down the bed. Hovering over his belt, I tell myself this is crazy. But he’d said he wanted me to make the decision in the morning when I was sober.
Well, I’m sober now—painfully so—and I want this.
Want him.
I unbuckle his belt with careful movements, trying not to wake him just yet. When the metal clinks, he shifts slightly but doesn’t wake. I unbutton his jeans next, dragging down the zipper tooth by tooth. His body stirs beneath my touch, responding even in sleep.
Pulling his jeans down his hips requires some maneuvering, but he’s asleep enough that he only mumbles something unintelligible as I work them down his thighs. His boxer briefs do nothing to hide his morning erection, the gray fabric tented impressively.
I run my palm over the length of him, feeling him harden further under my touch. And, with one last moment of hesitation—a fleeting thought of what this might do to our already complicated situation—I peel his underwear down, freeing him.
His cock springs up, thick and flushed, a drop of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking once, twice. He’s heavy and hot in my hand, skin like velvet over steel. Lowering my head, I take him into my mouth.
The salty taste of him that seems oddly familiar fills my senses as I wrap my lips around his tip, swirling my tongue around the sensitive head. I’ve never been particularly confident about doing this, but something about Declan makes me bold.
Makes me feel alive and safe all at the same time.
I take him deeper, establishing a rhythm, alternating between using my tongue and providing suction. His breathing changes, growing heavier, more ragged. I feel him stirring, waking slowly, his body responding before his mind catches up.
“Fuck,” he groans suddenly. His voice is rough with sleep, cracking slightly as consciousness hits him. “Lea?—”
His hands find my hair, fingers tangling in my curls, not pushing or guiding, just holding on like I’m anchoring him to reality. He’s still considerate, even when I’ve got his cock at the back of my throat, the rarest of men.
I look up the length of his body to meet his eyes—wide with shock, dark with desire. “Good morning, is this OK?” I ask, my lips brushing against his sensitive skin as I speak.
“Hell yes,” he mutters, his voice husky and his abs tightening visibly. “But you don’t have to?—”
I silence his protest by taking him deeper, hollowing my cheeks around him. His words dissolve into a deep moan, hishead falling back against the bed. His hips twitch, a tiny, restrained thrust that tells me he’s fighting to stay still, to not push deeper.
That small act of restraint, of consideration even now, makes something molten pool in my core. I redouble my efforts, taking him as deep as I can, using my hand to stroke what I can’t fit in my mouth. His breathing becomes more erratic, muscles tensing.
“Lea, wait,” he manages, his voice strained. “If this will be a one-time thing, it’s going to be a good time for both of us.”
Before I can process his words, his hands are under my arms, lifting me on top of him with a strength that sends another wave of heat through me. The whole time, his cock stays in my mouth, and suddenly his face is right at my pussy.
The first stroke of his tongue through my panties makes me arch off the bed. He chuckles, the vibration traveling through the thin fabric, then he makes quick work of them, hooking his fingers into the waistband and sliding them down my hips.
I should feel self-conscious—exposed, vulnerable—but the hunger in his eyes as he looks at me makes me feel powerful instead. I lift my hips to help him, then reach for him again, guiding his cock back to my mouth as he settles his face between my thighs.
The first touch of his tongue sends a shock wave through me. He’s talented—circling my clit with just the right pressure, then dipping lower to tease. It’s overwhelming—the dual sensation of giving and receiving pleasure.
