Those blue eyes meet mine. “No idea what you mean.” Dorian’s voice is deep and smooth. Too smooth. It’s time to rattle him. I pinch his nipple, giving a little tug. His breath catches, which sends a lovely rush of heat through me. I do the same to the other nipple.
“My point is,” I continue, “thirty-fiveisyoung. There shouldn’tbeany good for you. There should just be…good. I mean, did I miss a memo? Is thirty-five the end of the line?” I drop his nipples and move my nails up and down his body. I dig them in so they leave lovely, red lines across his pale skin. His fingers tighten around the couch cushions, but he knows better than to move. “I mean, it’s like everyoneexpects me to have my shit together. Like I should be married with children and have a sensible life at this point. But I feel like I’m just finding myself, you know?”
“I know.” His eyes are half closed, and as much as he’s trying to be still, trying to be a good boy, he can’t help himself and he arches into my hand, hips lifting, hunting for friction. With every pass of my nails, he’s dropping further and further into subspace, the brattiness leaving his body like an exorcism.
“What do you think? Are we old?”
He tilts his head, looking me in the eyes. “I think we’re just getting started.”
I can’t help but grin at that. “Take off your pants.”
“Yes, boss.”
He does. He unbuttons, pulls his zipper down, and pushes his pants down his legs. He’s wearing navy blue boxer-briefs that barely contain the man inside—the fabric gripping his strong thighs. Dorian is unfairly well-endowed and his cock swells obscenely against the stretch of his shorts. There’s a small, dark wet patch at the tip of him.
I won’t lie—it’s a thrill, seeing evidence of the effect I have on him. I cup the space under his chin, gripping him by the jaw like a bad dog. The scuff of his trimmed beard is delightfully rough in my palm. “What is this?” I chastise. “A mess? Your cock is weeping already. Pathetic.”
He pants against my hand, his breath short and rapid. “You told me to edge myself until you got here.”
“Mm. I guess I did say that, huh?”
I drag my nails slowly down the center of his body. I follow the dusting of dark hair from his navel. I’m careful to avoid his stiff, leaking cock, even as his hips rise towards my touch.
He loves this. And I love that he loves this. It makes theblood in my veins sing with a power I’ve never known before.
“How long has it been?”
His face reddens.
“Don’t get shy now. I know you’re counting the days.”
“A week.”
“Has it been that long since I let you come? Poor baby. You must be really fucking desperate. What do you think…have you been a good boy or bad?”
“Bad.” We love a self-aware king.
“Should we make it a month?”
A groan leaves his throat. I slide my hands up his thighs. I lean against him and draw my lips over his throat. I suck the skin there, put my teeth around it, and give him a small bite.
“Harder,” he begs.
“It’s going to leave a mark,” I warn.
“I know. I want you to.”
Delicious. I pull my lips against his skin, sinking my teeth in this time. I hear his breath hitch at the pain and his thighs tense under my hands. I suck, tasting the heat of his neck, and when I pull back, the skin is already bright red.
His breath is coming in short gasps. I nuzzle against his ear. “I bet you’d love it if I touched you right now, wouldn’t you?”
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Yes.”
“Should I give you…thirty-five strokes? One worship stroke for each year I’ve blessed the earth with my presence?”
He whimpers. I tease a hand up his cock. I palm him through the fabric. “Are you glad I’m not twenty-one now, you degenerate?”
“Yes, boss.”
