Page 89 of Stolen Harmony
He slid his hands down, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of my jeans, and pulled. Not gentle—hungry, rough, tugging them over my hips and down my legs. He left my briefs on, letting his palms skate up the inside of my thighs, making me tremble. I felt exposed and needy and worshiped all at once.
His hands were big, callused, a little unsteady but strong. He gripped my thighs and shoved my knees apart, spreading me for him, letting his gaze roam from my flushed face down to the bulge straining the front of my underwear.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice thick with awe and something darker. “You like being laid out like this? Showing off for me?”
“Only for you,” I managed, heat crawling up my neck. “You can touch me—any way you want.”
He ran his hands up my legs, over my hips, dragging his nails along the edge of my briefs, then back down, teasing, feeling me shake beneath him. The muscles in his arms flexed as he leaned over, and I found myself wanting to be handled, to be claimed, even as I could feel his nervousness under the bravado.
I reached up, catching his jaw, forcing him to look at me. “You’re allowed to want it,” I whispered, voice steady. “You’re allowed to take what you want from me. I want to give it to you.”
Something in him loosened at that—he bent down, mouth finding mine again, hard and claiming, tongue demanding entrance. His hands slid under my ass, squeezing, grinding my hips up into his. Our cocks rubbed together through thin fabric, and I arched, chasing friction, giving him everything.
His hips snapped forward, and I felt the thick ridge of him against my cock, both of us leaking, both of us desperate and denied.
“Fuck, you feel so good, Rowan,” he groaned into my mouth. “So fucking good.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, clinging, letting him press me into the mattress, his weight on me, his scent everywhere. Sweat, clean skin, something piney and masculine that was pure Elias. I wanted to drown in it.
He ground down, rutting against me, hands locked on my hips, holding me in place, making me take every slow, filthy thrust.
“Say it again,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Call me daddy.”
I licked my lips, looking up at him, letting him see every bit of my hunger, my trust. “Please, daddy. Want you to use me. Want to be your good boy.”
His hands tightened, and he let out a noise that was almost a growl, half disbelief, half hunger. He pressed his face into my neck, breathing me in, nipping at the skin just below my ear. I shuddered, legs spreading wider, offering myself up.
He rutted against me, grinding our cocks together, and I could feel the dampness spreading at the front of my briefs, his matching it, both of us teetering on the edge already.
I reached down, slid my hand between us, palming him through his underwear. He was rock hard—thick and heavy and leaking. He shivered, hips bucking into my grip.
“God, you’re so fucking big,” I whispered, loving the way he reacted, the pride that flickered across his face before uncertainty crept in.
He caught my wrist, pinned it above my head, using his other hand to pin my other arm, holding me down. His eyes searched mine, looking for any hesitation, any sign to stop.
“You sure?” he breathed, rough and raw.
“Yeah,” I said, grinding up into him. “More than sure. Just—” I hesitated, heart pounding. “You ever done this? With a guy?”
He shook his head, honesty in every line of his face. “No. Not like this. Not—fuck, not ever. But I want it. I want you.”
His confession sent a bolt of tenderness through the heat—something sacred, almost, in being the first, the one he’d let himself want.
“It’s just bodies,” I whispered, soothing, grounding. “Samerules—just messier, a little louder. Just follow my lead. Or manhandle me, if you want. I’ll tell you what I like.”
His eyes darkened, jaw flexing. “You like being handled?”
“Yeah. Especially by you.” I twisted my wrists in his grip, testing, letting him feel how much I liked being pinned, how much I wanted to be taken.
He smiled, slow and wicked, a new kind of confidence blooming in him.
He rolled us so I was sprawled across his lap, chest down, ass up, his palm flattening over my lower back. His hands roamed over my body—broad, sure, learning every inch. He kneaded my ass through my briefs, squeezed, spread me, traced the line of fabric up between my cheeks, making me gasp.
“You look so good like this,” he murmured, fingers brushing the edge of my briefs, just shy of slipping under. “All open for me. Mine.”
I moaned, pressing back, aching for more. “Yours. Always yours.”
But in the next heartbeat, I shifted, pushing him gently, rolling us so Elias landed flat on his back, sprawled across the bed. He let me do it, hands sliding down my sides, breath coming hot against my cheek. His body was solid beneath me—broad chest, carved abs, thick thighs that bracketed my hips. He looked up at me, chest heaving, a flicker of surprise and hunger in his eyes.
