Page 88 of Stolen Harmony
His cock was rock hard beneath his jeans, straining up against my thigh. I ground down, letting him feel how hard I was too, the thick ache of it trapped behind denim.
“Feel what you do to me?” I whispered, pressing our cocks together, nothing but layers of cloth between us.
He made a sound that was pure desperation, hips jerking up. “Jesus, Rowan?—”
I sat up and rolled my hips, making him feel it. The friction was maddening, not enough, almost painful, and we both gasped, chasing more.
I bent to kiss him again, slower this time, tongues tangled, mouths slick and messy. His hands found my waist, then slid up under my shirt, exploring the planes of my back, pulling me closer, fingers leaving hot trails everywhere they touched. I let him explore, let him take his time, every inch of me burning under his hands.
“Take this off,” he whispered, tugging at my shirt, and I grinned, shucking it over my head and tossing it aside.
Elias stared—really stared—eyes hungry and a little awestruck, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. For a moment, we just looked at each other, chests heaving, skin flushed, both of us realizing all over again that this was real.
Then he fumbled with his own buttons, hands only a little shaky now. I expected him to yank the shirt off the way I had, desperate and uncoordinated, but Elias did it differently. He worked each button loose with slow, deliberate movements, letting the fabric slip down his shoulders and onto the bed, baring inch after inch of skin. It felt almost ceremonial—like he wanted me to watch, to see all of him, scars and freckles and the spread of dark hair over his chest.
And then I saw him—really saw him—for the first time. I’d expected softness under his clothes, the comfort a man builds up in middle age, but what I found was hard muscle, broad shoulders and defined arms, the kind of body that doesn’t happen by accident. There were faded scars crisscrossing his ribs, a dusting of hair on his pecs, and a narrow waist that made my mouth go dry. He looked like he could pick me up and throw me around, like he’d spent his whole life carrying weight—physical, emotional, all of it.
“Jesus, Elias,” I breathed, letting my eyes roam, unashamed. “What the fuck have you been hiding under all those layers?”
He laughed, the sound low and slightly self-conscious. “It’s just a body. Yours is—” He broke off, looking at me like I was something he’d only ever seen in dreams. “You’re perfect.”
I scooted closer, letting my hands drift over his chest, mapping every line and plane. I traced the scars, the swell of muscle over his shoulders, the groove of his abs. “You could have warned me,” I teased, thumb brushing the line of hair that ran down to his waistband. “Is this what you do all day whenyou’re not brooding around town? Bench pressing pianos in the studio?”
He rolled his eyes but the flush on his cheeks was real. “Not exactly. I run a little. Lift when I can’t sleep. Helps me think. You like it?”
My hand drifted lower, fingers grazing over the deep cut of his hipbone, then back up to his pecs, thumbs teasing over his nipples, loving how he shuddered at every touch. “I fucking love it,” I said honestly. “Didn’t know I had a thing for DILFs until now.”
He barked out a laugh, then caught my hand in his, squeezing. “Careful, you’ll inflate my ego. You keep looking at me like that, I’m not responsible for what I’ll do to you.”
The spark in his eyes made my cock twitch, but there was something else there too—a flicker of mischief, of challenge, like he was testing how far I’d let this go.
I leaned in, nipping at his jaw, biting my way down his throat. “You can do anything you want to me,” I whispered, letting the words linger between us, heavy and true.
He shivered, breath catching, hands sliding down to grip my hips. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.” I pulled back, searching his face, seeing the way his pupils were blown, his lips swollen from kissing, every inch of him radiating want.
He hesitated, just for a second. Then, softer, “You know what else I liked? When you called that guy ‘daddy.’”
“Oh?” I let my voice drop, testing the waters, eyes on his. “You liked that?”
He nodded, barely breathing. “Yeah. I did. A lot.” He laughed, a little rough, a little shy. “Didn’t think I would. But it got to me. And now, all I can think about is hearing it from you. Here. With me.”
The words sent a thrill down my spine. I let the momenthang, testing the weight of it, then pressed closer, mouth at his ear.
“Yeah?” I whispered, letting my hand drift over his chest, down to his waist. “You want to hear me say it for you? Call you daddy while you fuck me?”
He groaned, hands tightening on my hips hard enough to bruise. “God, Rowan—don’t tease unless you’re serious.”
I grinned, emboldened by his reaction, by the way his whole body responded to the word. I rocked my hips against his, feeling his cock hard and urgent under his boxers. “Make me, then.”
He didn’t need any more encouragement. He rolled us over, pinning me beneath him, his hands everywhere—holding my wrists above my head, mouth bruising mine, then trailing down my neck, biting, marking. His body was heavy and solid against me, cock grinding into my thigh, every inch of him hungry and wild.
He sat back on his heels, still straddling me, eyes raking over my body, taking his time. His hands found my jeans, undoing the button, dragging the zipper down slow, making me squirm.
“You want to be a good boy for daddy?” he said, voice low, almost a growl.
The word sent a pulse of heat straight to my cock, and I nodded, breath caught in my throat. I wanted to see how far he’d go with it—wanted to see how he’d let himself have me, with all the permission I could give.
