Page 87 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
His mouth found mine again, hungry and demanding, as his hands guided my hips in a rhythm that had me seeing stars. I rocked againsthim, chasing the building pressure at the base of my spine, my fingers moving to dig into his shoulders.
“I’m going to come on you,” I panted, half plea, half warning, wholly mortified. Because when Maxwell snapped out of this, he was never going to be able to look at me the same again.
“Hey,” he said, capturing my chin to lift my face, staring intently into my eyes. “I’ll be able to look at you just fine.” He brought his mouth to my ear, as if whispering a secret. “In fact, I’ll remember how fucking hot you looked, rubbing yourself against me like this.”
His words sent me hurtling over the edge. My body tensed, every muscle locking as pleasure exploded through me. I cried out, throwing my arms around his neck, burying my face into it as I came in hot pulses across his thigh, my entire body shuddering with the force of my release. Raindrops and lemongrass and white-hot heat enveloped me at the peak, like a storm breaking inside me. Wave after wave crashed over me, leaving me gasping and clinging to Maxwell like he was the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
For a moment, I hung suspended in bliss, my body a collection of nerve endings humming with satisfaction. The room spun back into sharp edges and solid shapes, revealing my feet swaying inches above the floorboards—Maxwell was supporting my entire weight, his arms wrapped around me like steel bands, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs against my ear.
“Fuck,” I mumbled, face still buried in his neck, inhaling his intoxicating scent, the strength of it almost overpowering. My legs felt like jelly, utterly useless.
Between us, a sticky mess covered his jeans. But he had asked for it, hadn’t he? Practically demanded it with that commanding voice and those strong hands guiding my hips.
I became acutely aware of something hard pressing against my hip—Maxwell’s own considerable erection straining painfully against his jeans. That couldn’t be comfortable.
Slowly—giving him plenty of time to stop me if he wanted—I slid my hand down his chest, past his stomach, until my fingers brushed against the outline of his cock. He drew in a sharp breath.
“Can I suck you off?”
The question hung between us for one breathless moment. Then Maxwell’s arms loosened their grip, and I slipped to the ground, hitting the floorboards with a soft thud. Looking up, I found his expression had shifted, his brows drawn together.
“What, too gay?” I tried to joke, but it came out sounding strained and panicked.
“No,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make me flinch.
“Then what’s the problem?” I asked, fingers still hovering near his belt buckle.
“You’re injured, Rory.” His fingers traced a path from my wrist to the edge of my shoulder wound, which was barely bothering me with all the pleasant distraction. “You need to rest.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Seriously? That just now wasn’t particularly restful. What’s the real problem? Scared you won’t be able to look me in the eye after you’ve seen me on my knees for you?”
Something flashed in his eyes—that spark I’d seen before when I pushed his buttons just right.
“No,” he practically seethed. “I’m more concerned you won’t be able to handle what you’re asking for.”
“Your lack of evidence is disappointing for a detective. Let’s collect some more data points, shall we? Exhibit A, my mouth.” I flicked open his belt buckle with slightly shaking fingers, the metallic clink sounding like a dare in the quiet room. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed performance anxiety?”
A low, guttural sound—half growl, half groan—escaped Maxwell’s throat. In one swift movement, his hand shot out to grip the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with surprising strength. He guided me downward with firm pressure, not rough but undeniably commanding, until my knees hit the floorboards with a satisfying thud.
I grinned up at him, then with a wink, my fingers wiggled underneath the elastic band of his briefs as I remembered how much I’d wound him up that time in the car, when I’d taunted him with questions about his underwear. I yanked down both garments, my fingers brushing against the coarse curls at his groin. And then, jutting up with proud glory, his cock sprang free.
His rather massive cock.
Fuck that,his extremely massive, oh-my-god-it’s-humongous cock.
A cock I’d promised was going in my mouth.
My jaw actually dropped as my eyes blinked in disbelief at its thick, swollen head and the sheer bloody length of it. Smooth, formidable, throbbing, it completely filled my vision, dominating the space between us. I licked my lips, my eyes tracing its slight curve.
Maxwell was unable to hide the nervous edge in his laugh. “You thought I was exaggerating, didn’t you, Thorne?”
I ignored him, already moving my mouth towards it, overwhelmed by the urge to worship this magnificent creature. My lips parted, eager to trace every glorious vein, to map the contours of its impressive length with my tongue.
One hand went straight to his base. His cock pulsed beneath my hand, seeking, demanding. My mouth began with reverence, a slow drag of my tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the prominent vein that pulsed beneath my touch. Maxwell’s breath caught, a soft hiss filling the cottage as his head fell back against the wall. His cock twitched against my tongue, responding beautifully to each delicate exploration.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathed.
I painted wet circles around the base, taking my time, learning the geography of him—the slight ridge where shaft met pelvis, the velveteen softness of skin stretched taut over hardness. My hands steadied his hips, but they strained against my grip, seeking more than this teasing worship.
