Page 3 of Crown of Thorns
He leans in, finally closing the space, pressing our lips together in a kiss that is hot and unapologetically deep. It’s addictive. When we finally pull apart, breathless and close, the dancer rests his forehead against mine. His fingers deftly untiemy belt. We both look down when he slips his hand into my boxer briefs and pulls out my cock.
“Look at that.” My dick jolts in his hand, steel-hard and eager to get some attention. “The perfect fit. Like it’s always belonged there.”
“No—” No other words come out. I lick my dry lips, but all other thoughts have left my defective brain. My cock throbs in his grip, alive with need.
“No? Just feel. It’s leaking for me.”
I grit my teeth, but the sound I make is pure surrender when he presses his thumb into my slit with just enough pressure. He circles and rolls his hips once again.
“You feel so good under me, baby. All hard muscle and even harder cock. Just look at the poor thing. It needs my hot mouth so desperately.” My eyes flutter closed at his words.
He eases off my lap, my pants down in a breath. His mouth lowers and I forget how to breathe. “I’m going to blow your mind, baby.” His tongue traces the line of my popping vein, laving the underside of my dick in his saliva. With his dark eyes still focused on me, his hand grabs the base, and he directs the flushed, wet tip to those pillowy lips. When he puts his mouth onto my crown, I groan in desperation. It’s been so long. So, so long. My knees are shaking, and my mind is drowning in bliss. “Oh god…”
He smiles at that, the corners of his lips filling with spit and precum as he bobs his head and takes me in deeper. My chest heaves, and my hand sinks into his dark, soft, shiny hair. That sound—wet, steady, obscene—is going to haunt me. His sure hands make me forget everything. I want to come all over that smooth, glittery skin. I want to lick it all off, revel in this moment, and see him smile once more.
My moan reverberates through the room. I should be disgusted with myself. But all I feel is alive, every nerve strippedraw, every inch of me laid bare. He replies with a satisfied hum. His nails dig into the flesh of my thighs, showing off the swirly ink he has on his fingers. His lips work me in perfectly, cheeks hollowing as he traces the lines of my veins. His rhythm is relentless, deep, controlled, unerring. My cock hits the back of his throat, and he swallows like he was made for this. My balls feel incredibly heavy. I need to come. And still, his eyes remain on mine, devouring every single moment of my nearing defeat.
My body convulses, every nerve lit. That relentless mouth doesn’t stop until I’ve given him everything, milking me dry. Hands cover me up again, a mouth laughs softly, then there are retreating footsteps before a door softly clicks shut.
And I sit there, staring at the ceiling. I’m shaking. Wrecked.
I did this. I came here, knowing exactly what I was chasing. I gave in willingly. And now I’m not sure what I hate more: that I let him wreck me, or that I want more. Or that some part of me always has. Some part I was taught to despise.
Welcome home, Professor Montague, they whisper.
Welcome back to Saint-Laurent. To the place that turned my life into hell.
PART I
OMISSION
1
NOAH
“Noah. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust you had a successful move back from Paris?” Xavier LeChevalier, director of Saint-Laurent Boarding College for Boys, pats me on the shoulder like I’m an old frat brother he hasn’t seen for years.
I slam the door of my sister’s ancient Ford Fiesta, painfully aware it’s the only car in the lot worth less than a single tire of the nearest Aston around the entrance of Monterrey Castle.
“Monsieur, it’s an honor.”
“Don’t be so formal.” A squeeze in my shoulder this time. “Just call me Xavier. And this dinner is our welcome to you for starting your journey with us here at Monterrey. We appreciate our own.” The word lingers while we climb the stairs and make our way through the impressive building. Inside the reception room, waiters welcome us, their trays filled with champagne. A large table has been set. A massive Christmas tree stands next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, its lights a silver brilliance.
People are standing around in quiet clusters, chatting in low voices, their faces lit by the tree’s glow.
“Professor Montague.”
Xavier’s hand slides off me and he slaps it around the newcomer. “Jean-Luc, I’m glad you could make it. Did you bring your boys?”
“Wouldn’t want to miss this. I brought Louis, yes.” Piercing brown eyes take me in. The man’s a brick; tall and broad, muscles rippling in his navy-blue suit. His dark hair is slicked back, putting his chiseled features on full display. He looks like someone I don’t want to mess with.
“And you must be Professor Noah Montague. A pleasure. One of the youngest in the country, if I’m not mistaken. Thirty-two, right?”
I blink at the compliment, throat tightening before I manage a polite smile. “So I’ve heard. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Please call me Jean-Luc. After all, we’ll be colleagues.”
“Jean-Luc is an honourable member of the board of Saint-Laurent,” Xavier explains.
