Page 65 of Iron Roses

As mine.

I open my eyes.

His gaze meets mine.

My hands find each other first—fingers lacing, palms pressed together in a silent act of grounding. Of gathering. Ofclaiming my focus. Then I reach forward, slipping my locked hands beneath the surface, feeling the warm water part as I slide between his thighs.

He doesn’t stop me.

Doesn’t move.

But his breath changes.

I find his cock, hard and heavy, the skin smooth beneath my knuckles as I wrap both hands around him. I stroke, wrists pivoting in time with each drag of my fingers down his length. The water makes it sensual, like silk over heat. He thickens in my grip, twitching as I squeeze a little tighter.

I glance up.

His eyes are half-lidded, jaw clenched, chest rising with sharp breaths. He’s watching me. Watching my hands move under the water, the subtle rocking of my body as I lean in closer.

He exhales—long and low—and his hips shift just enough to push into my grip. A silent permission. A surrender.

I stroke him again, tighter this time, the water lapping softly around us. My thumb traces the ridge just beneath the head. A small movement, but I feel it like a reward.

I sink lower in the tub.

My hair floats on the surface as I kneel between his thighs, and the water sways gently around me. I don’t break eye contact. Not yet. I hold it for a moment longer, until I see the flicker behind his gaze—the one that says he’s barely holding on.

Then I dip my head.

I close my lips around the tip of his cock, tasting him—warm skin, salt. His hips jerk, restrained but urgent, as I lower my mouth farther, taking him deeper, letting him feel my tongue, pressing him against the roof of my mouth.

His groan rumbles above me, low and raw.

I suck, tongue dragging beneath his shaft, hands still wrapped around the base. I feel every twitch, every subtle flex of his thighs around me, the tension in his abs as he holds still. He’s letting me take control, letting me worship him on my terms—and it turns me on more than I can admit.

I move my mouth in pulses, cheeks hollowing, then releasing, drawing more of him in until the tip kisses the back of my throat. I hum just softly, and he shudders.

His hand moves, fingertips brushing my hair like he’s grounding himself. Something about this—the warmth, the silence, the way he comes undone for me—feels like I’ve lived it before.

His cock fills my mouth, warm and rigid, the tip swollen against my tongue. I start—tongue pressed flat beneath him as I suck gently, cheeks hollowing with each pull. I feel every vein along his shaft, the soft skin stretched taut, the heat radiating from him like a pulse.

I draw back until just the head rests on my lips, then swirl my tongue around it—circles that tease the underside. He groans above me, and his thighs tense on either side of my shoulders.

I drag my tongue lower, down the underside of his cock, tracing the thick ridge, then back up again in one long stroke. I repeat it—lick, alternating pressure—tasting salt, water, and the heat of his need.

His hand finds the back of my head.

His hips shift forward slightly, and I let him in deeper, my mouth relaxing as he fills the space. My throat stretches to take him, and he groans again, this time louder, more broken.

I choke just faintly, but I don’t pull back.

I want him deeper. Want to feel the way he lets go when he stops trying to control it.

I suck harder, tongue fluttering beneath the head, pressing upward, massaging every inch I can reach. He starts to breathe faster, hand tightening in my hair, guiding me with short thrusts of his hips—testing how much I’ll take.

And then—I feel her. Not physically, she is in my head.

“Curl your tongue under the head. Hold it there… then flutter. Small strokes. Let him feel it… right there.”

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