Ben freezes. “Fawl, we can’t.” His entire system locks up, his body taut, shoulders high, fingers curling in hesitation. “Someone’s going to see,” he pleads.
I don’t look up. I don’t care.
Instead, I press my hands against his thighs, warm and solid beneath the cool fabric of his suit. And I pull his trousers and underwear down in one pull.
“Fawl…wait.” His dick is glistening like it’s glazed with hard sugar. Ben devours me with his eyes and steadies himself on the bookshelf.
I roll the thick length against my palm, feeling its hot, velvety smoothness.
I open my mouth, and he holds the base of his cock and taps my tongue once, twice, three times, until he is hard and beating like a heart. I lift it to my lips. Then I slide the head inside of my mouth and suck. The moment I do, my mouth floods with saliva.
“God, Fawl!”
The wetness coats my lips. I pull back with a soft pop, my saliva glistening on the head, then go back in, slower this time, dragging my tongue in a long, deliberate swirl before hollowing my cheeks and taking it in deep.
Ben’s knees buckle. “Suck my cock, Fawl—shit.” His hands flex behind my head, his entire body locked in place, except for his eyes, which follow every flick of my tongue.
I hum around him, and he whimpers like a child. The vibration runs through my teeth, down my throat, across my skin.
He’s pumping now, closing his eyes and wetting the back of my tongue with something sticky and hot. I let my teeth graze the head just barely, then pull it from my mouth with a long, slick drag, strings of saliva catching in the light before snapping away.
Ben inhales sharply, holding the back of my head and moaning, bucking down my throat. “Letting me fuck your mouth in a library.”
His chest rises, falls, rises again too fast.
He looks at me like he wants to consume me whole.
When I slide his thick cock back between my lips, twisting it, sucking hard enough that my cheeks hollow again, his hands twitch—like he wants to grab something, break something, do something.
Instead, he closes his eyes. “I’m going to come down your throat, so swallow it all. Don’t waste a drop.” He thrums on my tongue, vibrating and jerking his platinum-lined thickness into my mouth, slamming priceless volumes underneath his palm.
“Fawl.” His voice is ragged, hesitant. He pulls me up and kisses me so deeply, I bow back with intensity.
Tension bleeds out of him; his breath turns deep, slow. His fingers sink into my hair, pressing me close.
“Skin to skin,” he whispers in my ear.
I’m on dangerous ground. My desire for things has a way of making them rush out of my hands. And now I’m willing to burn it all down to keep that from happening.
Chapter24
The Council Gala
Five minutes inside the Council Gala, and Ben looks like he might lose his cookies or his nerve.
At least he looks like hebelongshere. I had to force this sleek, perfectly tailored black suit onto his body—nearly transparent in the right sleeve and down one leg to show off his magnificent shoulder and thigh. Since going off the dampeners, he hates the captivity of fashion. He calls itdesigned to restrain.
“Are you ready for whatever they might throw at us?” Ben’s voice, smooth and low, tugs me back from my own thoughts. I glance up at him, hooked onto his arm like a fishing lure, bobbing slightly with every step.
My hair is arranged in two elaborate puffs on either side of my head, affixed with tiny fairy drones. Everything about my outfit screamscloud. I’m floating around in this gauzy little tulle minidress, so ethereal that I half expect to vanish in a puff of soft pink, leaving nothing behind but a whisper of perfume and a pair of what Ben says areexcessively spectacular legs.
“Throw at us?” I tilt my head, trying to match his easy confidence. But, inside, my stomach is performing a whole damn circus routine.
Exactly seven minutes in, and I secure my first passive-aggressive compliment. A personal best, surely.
It comes from a man with thinning hair and a cybernetic eye nestled beneath his brow.
“Ah, the eldest Iku,” he says, his voice dripping with enough faux warmth to frost a cake, “and his sk?—”
