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“That’s right,” I tell him, voice low, thumb stroking over his cheek. “Good boy.”

The praise is a rock thrown into the center of a pond to watch the ripples. A tease and a careful step toward something I could take further if he wanted me to.

Close as we are, I catch every reaction like a string of dominoes falling. The snag in his breathing, the twitch of a shoulder, and the eyelids that fall closed; fingers pressed hard into the back of my leg, and the way he opens up to let more of me inside. Carefully, I arch my back, a groan slipping out at the way it feels to have that wet heat surrounding me. I’m grateful for how slowly we’re moving, grateful that I’m able to hold back and not come too quickly. It clicks, suddenly, that the purpose of sex doesn’t always have to be a blind rush to come. It can bethis, too—a loving and careful exploration, and trust that feels bigger than naked bodies and orgasms.

“Relax your jaw.” Another stroke of his cheek as he complies. “There you go, just relax.”

My head feels fuzzy from the incessant thrum of desire radiating from my core, senses overloaded. Nils shifts on his knees, settling in a little further while I rock slowly—so, so slowly—into his mouth. Every now and then, his eyes close for a few seconds as though he’s having trouble keeping them open, head bobbing shallowly as he tries to be a more active participant in the blow job. I stop him each time, one hand still cupping his chin and the other on his cheek. When his own hand drops down to where his dick is sitting untouched, hard and flushed dark, I stop him again.

“Not yet.” He pauses. “Put your hands on your thighs. There you go,” I croon, smiling to myself when he makes a tiny, needful noise around my dick and rests his palms down. The back of my knee tingles where his fingers are no longer pressed tight.

Not wanting him to wind up with a sore jaw, and fast nearing the point where I can no longer hold off, I pick up speed. My movements are shallow enough not to gag him, but deep enough that I can feel myself when I press a thumb to his cheek. My voice wavers when I try to talk, release finally ramping up enough that I can no longer push it down.

“So good for me. So beautiful. I dreamed of seeing you like this, kneeling for me. Leaking all over yourself. Dreamed of being so far inside you I could feel it.” I push harder against his cheek, hips stuttering when he groans deep enough that I swear I can feel the vibrations up my spine. I’m only half-aware ofwhat I’m saying, too focused on watching my slick cock slipping through his lips. “So, so good for me.”

This time, the sound Nils makes is closer to a whimper, and when he closes his eyes, they don’t open again. His hands, still resting on his legs, are tense, dick flushed and hard and probably painful.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” I murmur, once more losing my rhythm when he moves quickly to follow the order. I’m not sure what is more pleasurable right now, the blow job or the realization that Nils is so beautifully pliable and willing.

His hand moves over his dick a lot faster than he was touching me. A lot faster than I’d touch him were I able to reach. I want to tell him to slow down, but release sparks along my nerves, and I’m too close to the edge to do anything but fall.

“I’m coming,” I tell him, pulling back. I’m not going to come in his mouth unannounced, or anywhere near his face.

A hand clamps around the back of my thigh before I can slip all the way out, just the tip still inside his mouth as I come. For the first time all evening, I lose track of what’s happening. I don’t know what Nils is doing or what I’m doing or who the heck the president is. Everything narrows down to a wave of release, sharp heat before it simmers to warm, and the continued suction of Nils’ mouth, cheeks working underneath my hands like he’s trying to drink me down.

He’s still got his mouth on me when he comes, groaning again and shoving me straight from orgasm into oversensitive. My dick twitches like it wants to rally, but I pull back again, needing a break from the prolonged sensation. Nils takes what is probably his first full lungful of air, lips parted and hand stillmoving idly on his cock. Tipping his face up, I lean down and kiss him, looking for myself on his tongue and needing just one more minute of contact before it’s gone.

Chapter Fifteen

NILS

There’s something incredibly appealing about watching Oliver’s fair skin turn blotchy and flushed, hearing the crack and strain in his voice, and feeling the release of tension from his body. I’ve got a hell of a memory, but even if I didn’t, I doubt I could ever forget the words he said or the way he said them.

My knees start to ache—or at least I become aware of the pain that was already present—when Oliver pulls back. I lick my lips, chasing the taste of him and already missing the warmth of his palms cupping my face. Nobody has ever touched me or spoken to me the way he did. Shifting, I try to relieve some of the pressure on my knees, grateful at least that Oliver had the foresight to toss a pillow down.

“Here,” he says, voice rough as though our positions were reversed and his mouth was the one that was full, hand held out to help me up. I grasp it, snagging the black lace off the floor on my way. I have half a mind to keep them, but the otherhalf—the smarter half—wants them back on him. The delicate things are made to be seen, not removed or hidden.

Oliver’s cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and bottom lip swollen and bitten to hell. I lean forward and kiss him again, finding it a little hard to stop now that I’ve started. He makes a softmmphfnoise and smiles against my mouth. When I lean back, I dangle the panties between us and watch the blush spread.

“Back on, then?” he clarifies, pulling them out of my grasp and leaning over to slip them over his feet. I want my shirt back on him, too, but I’ll settle for the lace for now.

Snagging the pillow from off the floor, I strip the case off and toss it into the hamper. Oliver, standing in the center of the room watching me, lasts only until I open my dresser for a pair of boxers before he starts humming. I smile, glancing back and meeting his eye.

“It’s always a little awkward…afterward,” he says, gesturing randomly with one hand, the other flat on his belly like he wishes he could cover up. His insecurity pops up at the oddest times, poking holes into things he’s got no business feeling embarrassed about. I approach him, picking up his shirt on the way.

“Also, sorry about…not giving you enough warning before I came. I didn’t mean to do that. It would have been better to ask beforehand, but I didn’t think of it, and then we were a little busy. But yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve got much better manners than that, I promise.”

I hand him my shirt, watching as he smiles and slips itover his head. His hair is still a little damp, the waves more pronounced and the color darker than it usually is. I’ve got no idea why coming in my mouth is where his worry is snagged—I wanted him to and in fact stopped him from pulling away. He tried. I wanted him to stay.

“I liked it.” But judging by the look on his face, he doesn’t. I wait, tugging the shirt straight. I never have to beg Oliver to share things.

“So do I, usually. Although sometimes people are kind of rough about it, and, like, hold your head down and stuff. Which I also don’t mind sometimes, but that’s what I mean about manners—you have to ask and not just go right in for it.” He pauses when I stroke a hand down his side, unable to be this close and not touch him. “Once, someone came all over my face, andthatI did not like. I think it’s supposed to be sort of sexy, like marking your territory or whatever, but it didn’t feel sexy. It mostly felt dirty and also rude. He also sort of slapped my cheek now that I’m thinking about it, which was another thing I could have lived without. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

He laughs, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into that still-swollen bottom lip. Nobody could ever accuse me of knowing what’s sexy and what isn’t, but hitting Oliver would never have crossed my mind. Seeing someone slap him would probably send me into a murderous rage, not arousal. Frowning, I stroke a thumb over one of those cheeks. Oliver, like he always does, plucks the thoughts straight from my head.

“Not that I thinkyouwould do that. But you can’t always know how people will act, and the only way to find out sometimesis to justdoit, you know? You don’t have to worry about me doing that. No slapping or degradation here. Although”—he perks up a little bit, eyes dancing and mouth tilted—“I will always let you know when you’re doing good.”

Now,thatwas something of a surprise. I hadn’t realized there was a button there to press, but hearing Oliver slurgood boyin that low, sultry voice had felt like an electric shock. In that moment, I didn’t think I’d ever wanted, or could want, anything so badly as I wanted to be good for him.