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Another stroke. Another pulse.
“God, her scent. You smell that too, Theo?” I pant, not even pretending to hide the shake in my voice. “Like syrup and sin and something I want to eat off the floor.”
Theo exhales. Loud. Pained.
Bingo.
I push myself higher, abs flexing, cock thick in my grip.
“I’d drop to my knees and worship her. I’d drag my tongue up her thighs and suck her clit until she sobbed my name like it was a prayer and a war crime.”
The thought of her - writhing, panting, begging through that door - is killing me.
Still nothing from Theo.
So I go for the kill.
“I bet her pussy tastes likeheaven. Like sugar and lightning. Like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.”
I stroke faster, vision blurring.
My balls are tight. My hips can’t stop moving. My palm is slick from precome.
I imagine her.
Rhea.
On her knees.
That mouth wrapped around my cock. Those pretty lips soaked in spit and Omega need.
My back arches, and Isnap.
“You still watching, pretty boy?” I manage, voice rough. “Still pretending you’re not hard as fuck for this?”
Silence.
But it’s the kind that pulses.
“Good,”I hiss. “Then watch me come.”
I tip over the edge with a growl, hips jerking, cock spilling across my hand and stomach in hot, messy streaks. I ride it out, groaning like a man who just found the last cookie in the jar.
My fist finally falls away, slick and spent. I inhale deeply and roll to the side.
“Fuck,” I mutter, grinning as I come back in to myself again. “You should’ve taken notes on that.”
I sit up, grab the towel I left on the floor (yes, I’m disgusting and self-aware), and clean up.
Leisurely. Like I’m wiping down a victory.
I toss the towel into the corner with the grace of a man who’s definitely not doing laundry himself, then sprawl back on the bed. Bare. Satisfied.
Maybe a little smug.
“You’re welcome for the show,” I murmur, loud enough to cross the hall. “Tips accepted in the form of compliments and/or baked goods.”
Still nothing.
