Zeke And Dorian

Zeke's POV

The man could kiss.

That was my first coherent thought before coherent thoughts stopped being possible. His mouth on mine was nothing like I expected, not cold, not controlled, not careful. He kissed me like he was hungry and had decided I was the only thing on the menu tonight.

His lips moved against mine slowly at first, learning me, tasting me, and then his hand tightened in my hair and he tilted my head back and deepened it and I felt my entire body light up from the inside like something had been switched on that had been off for years.

I kissed him back just as hard.

His tongue pushed into my mouth and mine met it and it turned dirty immediately, wet and slow and deep, the kind of kiss that felt like a conversation about everything that was about to happen. He sucked my lower lip between his and bit down softly and I made a sound into his mouth that I had no control over whatsoever. He did it again, harder this time, and I dug my fingers into his shoulders and held on.

His hand moved from my hair to my chest and closed over my pec through my shirt and squeezed and my back arched into his palm on pure instinct.

He was not gentle about it. His grip was firm and sure and when his thumb found my nipple through the fabric and pressed I gasped into his mouth and he swallowed the sound and kept going, kept kissing me, his tongue stroking mine while his hand worked my chest like he had all the time in the world and no intention of rushing any of it.

I could feel my legs separating on their own. My thighs falling open where I was straddling his lap, my body making room, making itself available without me giving it permission. Every nerve ending I had was firing at once.

My skin felt too tight, too warm, like I was burning from somewhere underneath it, and all he had done was kiss me and put his hand on me and I was already further gone than I had been with Marta after an hour of trying.

He broke the kiss and I chased his mouth and he let me catch it, let me kiss him again, deep and greedy, and I could feel a thin string of saliva break between our lips when he pulled back a second time and looked at me.

His grey eyes were darker than they had been. Something had shifted in them, something that had not been there before, and he was breathing slightly harder than he had been and that small change, that tiny crack in his composure, made triumph and want surge through me at exactly the same time.

I kissed him again before he could say anything. I bit his lower lip the way he had bitten mine and felt him inhale sharply through his nose and his hand on my chest tightened almost to the point of pain and I moaned against his mouth because it felt incredible.

His other hand moved then. Down from my waist, sliding under the hem of my shirt, his rough palm dragging up the inside of my thigh and I shivered hard at the feeling of it. His hands were exactly what I had imagined in the car. Huge and warm and certain, touching me like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no questions about it whatsoever. His fingers reached the inside of my thigh and spread wide and my legs fell open further and he made a low sound of approval against my lips.

His fingers found the front of my underwear and cupped me there, just held his hand there, the pressure warm and firm and maddening, and I rolled my hips forward trying to get more.

He pulled his mouth from mine and brought his lips to my ear and his breath was warm and slow against my skin when he spoke.

"You have to come," he said quietly, "without me actually touching you."

I turned my head to look at him and he took the opportunity to close his mouth over my earlobe and suck, his tongue working slow circles, his teeth grazing the soft flesh, and the sensation shot straight down my spine and between my legs and I gripped his shirt with both hands and tried to remember how breathing worked.

"That's not fair," I managed.

He released my ear and pressed his lips to the side of my neck just below it, dragging them down slowly. "I didn't say anything about fair."

He kissed back up to my jaw and then found my mouth again and this time the kiss was deeper than before, wetter, his tongue stroking mine in long slow pulls, one hand still cupping my chest and squeezing, and I could feel myself getting harder by the second against the hand that was not quite touching me enough.

He broke the kiss for just a moment, his lips brushing mine as he spoke. "I could fucking kiss you forever," he said, low and rough, and then he was kissing me again before I could respond, his mouth urgent now, hungrier, and I kissed him back with everything I had and rocked my hips forward grinding against his hand.

His fingers moved. Just slightly. Rubbing slow circles against the fabric of my underwear, pressing just enough, and the friction hit me like a current and I moaned loudly into his mouth and he sucked my tongue and kept the pressure going.

Then he pulled his hand back.

I made a desperate sound against his lips that I was not proud of.

"Please," I breathed.

He kissed the corner of my mouth. My jaw. The soft spot under my ear again. "Please what?" he murmured against my skin.

"Touch me. Properly. Please."

His hand came back, rubbing slow firm circles again through the wet fabric, and I could feel how hard I was, could feel it straining against his fingers, and apparently so could he because he made a sound low in his throat that was raw and unguarded and nothing like the controlled man who had sat across from me twenty minutes ago.

"Yes," he said quietly, almost to himself. "More."

His fingers pressed harder and moved faster and I stopped trying to be quiet.

I moaned into his neck and rolled my hips chasing his hand and he kept going, kept the rhythm, his mouth back on mine swallowing every sound I made, and I felt it building, that shimmer, that cliff edge I had been chasing my whole life, closer than it had ever been, so close I could feel my thighs starting to shake.

He stopped.

"No," I said out loud, hips grinding forward chasing friction he was no longer giving me. "No, don't stop, please don't stop—"

"Beg me," he said against my ear, his voice low and filthy and completely calm.

"I am begging you," I said and I had no shame about it whatsoever. "Please. Please touch me. I need it. I'm so close, I'm right there, please—"

He put his hand back and I cried out.

He spoke then, low and continuous against my ear, dirty words in that quiet steady voice, telling me exactly what he was going to do to me, what he wanted to hear from me, how good I felt against his hand, and the combination of his voice and his fingers and the filthy words and his mouth on my neck all hit me at once and I shattered.

The orgasm tore through me so hard my vision went white at the edges. I gripped his shirt and shook and moaned his name, actually moaned his name, while wave after wave of pleasure crashed through me and I ground down against his hand riding every last second of it.

When it finally released me I slumped forward against his chest, breathing like I had been running, heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

His hand stroked slow up my back.

I sat there and tried to remember who I was.

Then I laughed. A real one, surprised out of me, pressing my face against his chest. Because after years. After every person and every attempt and every night ending in frustration and that horrible hollow feeling, it had taken this man twenty minutes and his hand over my underwear to do what nobody else had managed to do at all.

I lifted my head and looked at him.

His expression had shifted. Not much. But enough. Something behind his eyes that was warm and dark and very focused on me.

"Well," I said, voice still unsteady. "I suppose you've earned it."

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

"We're just getting started," he said.