Page 60 of Deep End

This is the one thing in my life that’s not aboutme.

Lukas’s hand cups my face, thumb pressing against the corner of my mouth. “Still okay with this?”

Another eager nod. Truth is, I don’t want him to check in on me. I want to be free of it. I want him to—

“You just want to be told exactly what to do, don’t you?” he says quietly, with a small smile. Because hetrulyunderstands. “Right now, you just want to be a mouth, huh?”

I push past the lump in my throat. “I think I do.”

His thumb slips past my lips, large, testing. He leans forward for a kiss that’s just tongue—his meeting mine over the place where his finger holds my mouth open, filthy and mind-wipingly good.

“We can make that happen, Scarlett.” He straightens back up. When he looks down at me, I think of Nordic deities and sky-sent mandates. “Open up.”

Lukas wants to be in control, and I get to do very little about it. He takes the base of his straining cock, flattens the underside against my mouth, brushes the head across my lips. He grunts as he starts feeding me the first inch, and the second, and—

“Oh, fuck.” His palm is around my jaw, controlling every movement. All I can do is keep myself open and soft for him. “I need a minute to . . .” He pulls out. Another groan. A deep inhale. He caresses my cheek gently, sweetly, like his cock is not dripping precome on the side of my mouth. “I’m going to teach you the way I like it. You want to learn, don’t you?”

It’s my purpose in life. It won’t be one hour from now, and I had no clue I cared twenty minutes ago, but now—I want nothing as intensely as this. Fuck diving, fuck med school, fuck being a productive member of society. “Please.”

He lets out a half-cursed, hushed word. I’m ready to do whatever he asks of me, but he hesitates. Takes a moment to push back the dark locks falling on my cheek, his touch kind and almost reverential. “You’re so fucking . . .”

“What?” I ask. My lips brush against his foreskin. He exhales.

“I don’t even know.” His eyes are amused, but his voice is hoarse and hungry, and then his fingers are knotting in my hair and I’m sucking around his length, an easy rhythm completely guided by him, the speed and depth his choice alone. A brief moment of adjustment as I get used to his size, to the way his hands give directions, to how easy it would be to choke on him.

“Eyes up here, Scarlett.”

My mind is a buoyant, soft space. My underwear so sticky, it’ll have to be peeled off. It’s everything I asked for. Maybe not out loud, but I doubt I could ever fully explain how much I enjoy discovering what he likes.

Lukas gets it, though. His gaze flicks between my lips and my eyes, and he understandseverythingabout what’s happening here. “You’re doing so well.” His accent is thicker, as hefty as the wet slide of his cock on my tongue. “I thought about this a lot, and it was a great mental image, butChrist.” One finger traces my cheek, the imprint he creates from within my mouth. He mutters something in Swedish, raspy and furious and definitelyfilthy, desperate enough to annihilate the language barrier. “You love this, don’t you?”

His hold slackens just enough to allow a verbal response. “I do.” His thighs tense under my hands, as though he wanted to hear it as badly as I wanted to say it.

My jaw is a little sore, but I can barely feel it when he says, “That’s good. Because you look fantastic with my cock in your mouth.” He pulls me back to it, and maybe it’s my one true calling, because he’s rougher now, the strokes deeper and not as restrained. He’s too big to do anything pornographic with, but he’s willing totry, and to let me do the same. The head of his cock bumps against the inside of my cheek, then moves farther inside, a nudge, just the edge of it trying to make its way down my throat.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to—fuck—work on this. You’re doing great. So good to me,” he reassures me when I don’t have enough experience to make myself lax, like this is precisely what he wanted.

Me, trying.

And I do try. A slight push, like I can fit him inside just by will, and it must catch him off guard. There are more Swedish words, and an unsteady quality to his grip on my nape, and then he’s on the edge of coming.

“Fuck, Scarlett—”

For a second, I’m sure he’ll hold my gaze throughout. Then, just before his orgasm tears through him, his eyes close, his head tips back, and his lost expression has me moaning around his flesh. His grip strengthens around both sides of my face, and I’m convinced that there is a universe in which I could come just from this—from how much he’s enjoying it, from knowing that I did this for him, the lightness of being in mybody, and not in myhead.

I do my best to swallow, work convulsively, but there’s too much, the positioning’s wrong, and Lukas has to use his thumb to press what’s left of his come in my mouth. He’s slow and patient and thorough, glassy eyes and flushed freckles, and every time I suck on the pad of his finger, he lets out silent groans and something foreign that could beperfect.

I’m high-strung. Floating. Burning up. He lifts me like I weigh less than a feather, settles me on the edge of the bench. I’m almost—almost—aware of my surroundings: The pungent, chemical smells of the lab. Lukas’s biceps, steel around me. The loud tempo of his breathing.

I once learned that the fastest sprinters don’t bother taking a single breath across the entire pool. Something about the headrotations being inefficient, and the oxygen not having enough time to reach the muscles. They go totally anaerobic for twenty seconds, which means that their lung capacity must be a work of art.

And Lukas Blomqvist, the fastest person to ever swim fifty meters, is panting against the curve of my throat like there isn’t enough air in the universe to fill him up. And it takes him a while to recover, before he’s able to cup the back of my head again, his tongue in my mouth almost obscenely deep.

He’s still hard against my stomach. My arms are wedged between our torsos, as though he wants to burrow me into him. “You did really well, Scarlett.” He sounds shaken but steady. Slowly regaining control. His fingers slide down my flanks, travel down to my thighs, and . . . the hem of my shorts comes up so high, it’s easy for him to slide one hand underneath and meet the elastic of my cotton panties.

I gasp.

He smiles.

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