"Because your body recognizes what it needs," I told him, carding my fingers through his hair, the strands silky against my skin. "Your senses are waking up after years of forced dormancy."
His mouth moved lower. His tongue traced patterns across my chest, learning the texture of skin over muscle, the contrast of smooth flesh and coarser hair. When his lips closed around my nipple, a current of pleasure shot through me. The wet heat of his mouth drew a groan from deep in my chest.
"Yes," I breathed, tightening my grip in his hair. "Like that."
He made a small sound, his lips forming a perfect seal around my nipple. Then he settled into a rhythm. Not the teasing or playful, but instinctive, as if he were searching for something he didn’t know he’d lost. His cheeks hollowed with each pull, drawing me deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. The suction was intense, just shy of painful, a raw, primal sensation that lit something feral inside me.
The nature of his suckling changed something in his demeanor. His body melted under my touch, shoulders dropping, face slack with the kind of peace only surrender brought. His eyes had closed, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks, and soft, contented sounds escaped his throat between pulls.
"That's it," I murmured, cradling the back of his head. "Take what you need from me."
Arousal built rapidly, not just from the physical sensation but from watching him take this comfort, from being the one to provide what he so desperately needed. Something primal and possessive unfurled inside me as he nursed.
He responded by shifting position, moving more fully into my lap. His body aligned with mine, one thigh pressing between my legs, his own hardness evident against my knee. His hands wrapped around my torso, clinging as he nursed.
Five minutes passed, then ten, his mouth working steadily, the suction transforming into an ache. Each pull now sent jolts of electricity straight to my groin. My cock strained painfully against my pants, and the sweet ache in my nipple had intensified to something bordering on discomfort.
"Switch sides, sweet boy," I directed, gently guiding his head toward my other nipple. "This one needs a rest."
He made a small sound of protest but allowed himself to be redirected. His mouth found my other nipple, latching on with the same eager intensity. The relief in the first nipple was almost as intense as the pleasure had been, the blood rushing back, creating a throbbing ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
"Good boy," I praised, stroking his hair. "So hungry for this, aren't you?"
He hummed against my chest. His hips had begun to move in small thrusts, grinding against my thigh. The silk of his pajamas created a whisper of fabric against fabric, and the damp spot forming at his groin left a cooling trail on my pant leg.
The sight of him like this—open and aching, surrendering so completely—sent fresh heat coursing through me. My free hand moved to adjust myself through my pants, the pressure almost painful. This was an unexpected pleasure, watching him find comfort with his mouth on me. His body was hard, his touch electric and reverent.
He was unraveling, shedding shame and fear. Becoming. Learning to feel, to want, to grieve.
"You poor thing," I murmured. “When was the last time you felt safe? The last time you let yourselfneed?”
A small, broken sound escaped him, and he clung to me harder, as if he were afraid I’d push him away. His hips moved more urgently now, matching the rhythm of his mouth.
I put my arms around him, not restraining, but gently supporting him, almost like an embrace. “Go on. Take what you need. What they denied, I will give freely. I won’t leave you, Micah. Not now, not ever. You’re mine now. You’re safe here.”
He let out a small sob and shifted his weight, letting me support him completely.
I recognized the approaching crescendo in his movements, the tightening of his muscles, the quickening of his breath. I hadn't come in my pants since adolescence, but the possibility seemed alarmingly real in this moment.
"Are you going to come for me, sweet boy?" I murmured, lips against his hair.
He whimpered and nodded slightly, his hips moving frantically now. His face had flushed pink, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air of the room.
I lightly kissed his temple. "Go ahead. I’ll hold onto you."
His whole body seized as he ground down hard against my thigh. Even as he shattered, he clung to me, his mouth locked to my chest like it tethered him to reality. I felt the heat of his release soak through the silk, spreading warmth across my leg in slow, pulsing waves.
Pleasure took its time with him—no sharp finish, just a long, slow surrender. He didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop holding on, as if pleasure alone could keep him anchored. Even when the shudders passed, his mouth lingered a moment longer, lips trembling before finally letting go with a soft, shaking breath.
He slumped against me, spent and silent, his body heavy and trusting in my arms.
"I'm sorry," he whispered after a long moment, face hidden against my skin. "I don't know what came over me. I just needed to... I didn't mean to... I ruined the pajamas you gave me."
I lifted his chin with gentle fingers, forcing him to meet my eyes. His face was flushed, eyes damp, lips swollen and puffy. He looked thoroughly debauched and perfect. A masterpiece in progress.
"You’ve ruined nothing," I assured him, thumb tracing his lower lip. "Your pleasure was the point. I told you we were going to relax and enjoy ourselves tonight, did I not?"
Confusion flickered across his features. "You're not... angry? Disgusted?"
