Page 94 of The Puck Contract

"Relax," I mutter against his heated skin. "Let me in."

Whether it's my words or his own desperation, something shifts. Moments later, he surrenders, muscles loosening beneath my touch. I take immediate advantage, pressing my tongue with intent against his entrance, feeling it give way slightly.

The sound he makes when my tongue breaches him is unlike anything I've heard before—raw and primal, shocked pleasure layered with vulnerability. I grip his hips harder, holding him steady as I work him open with my tongue, each thrust going deeper than the last.

"Groover… I can't—" His words dissolve into incoherent sounds as I reach around to grip his cock, stroking in time with the thrusts of my tongue.

The dual stimulation is too much for him. With a broken cry that echoes off the shower walls, he comes, his body clenching rhythmically around my tongue, cock pulsing in my grip. I work him through it, relentless, not slowing my movements until spasms subside, only pulling away when he whimpers with oversensitivity.

His legs are trembling so badly I'm afraid he might collapse. I rise quickly, wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him, pressing my chest to his back. My cock slides against the cleft of his ass, the friction pulling a groan from deep in my chest.

"I've got you," I whisper against his ear, feeling him lean back into me, trusting me to support his weight.

For several moments, we stand like that, the shower raining down on us, his breathing gradually slowing. When he finally turns in my arms, his expression is dazed, eyes only half open, lips red from where he's bitten them.

"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently unable to find words.

"Serviceable?" I suggest, unable to keep the smugness from my voice.

Instead of answering, he reaches between us, wrapping his hand around my aching cock. "My turn."

I hiss at the contact, hips bucking into his grip. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up," he says, tightening his hold.

He drops to his knees in a mirror of my earlier position, looking up at me with determination that borders on defiance. The sight of him like that—on his knees, water streaming down his face, lips parted in anticipation—nearly undoes me before he even touches me.

When he takes me into his mouth, the wet heat of it is almost too much. I brace one hand against the shower wall, the other threading through his hair as he takes me apart with growing confidence.

What he lacks in experience, he makes up for with enthusiasm and attention to detail. He watches my reactions carefully, repeating whatever makes my breath catch or my fingers tighten in his hair.

He’s the hottest thing I've ever seen.

It’s the sight of him that does things to me—those unimaginable things that send me tumbling toward the edge so fast it’d be embarrassing, if it weren’t for the fact it’s Mateo on the other side of my impending demise.

With him, embarrassment isn’t in my emotional vocabulary.

"Close," I warn, tugging gently at his hair. "So close already."

He hums in acknowledgment and takes me deeper, one hand coming up to work what he can't fit in his mouth. The combination of the sensations and the visual is too much.

He’s too much.

"Mateo—" My warning dissolves into a groan as pleasure crashes through me, my body tensing as I come.

He stays with me through it, swallowing what he can, one palm gripping my hip, keeping me grounded in reality that’s contracted to the man in front of me.

Eventually, I haul him to his feet, claiming his mouth in a kiss that tastes of me, of him, of both of us together.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against my shoulder. "So that's what rimming is," he says with a breathless laugh. "The articles didn't do it justice."

I snort, pressing quick kiss to his forehead. "Articles?"

"Research," he says primly, though the effect is somewhat ruined by his debauched appearance. "Very thorough."

"I bet," I say, reaching around him to turn off the water, which has started to run cold. "Come on, Professor. Let's dry off before we both catch pneumonia."

He follows me out of the shower, accepting the towel I hand him. We dry each other with a care that feels almost dangerous, touches lingering longer than strictly necessary. When he reaches up to towel my hair, I catch his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm.

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