Page 57 of Lock

“Say it again.”

“Silas.”

His jaw flexed, like the word went straight through him.

He lowered his mouth again and the heat of him overwhelmed everything, his fingers moving exactly where I needed it, his mouth sealing around me with slow, deliberate pressure that made me cry out, helplessly.

I slapped a hand over my mouth, too loud, too raw.

He tore it away instantly, fingers wrapping around my wrist.

“No,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

The sound of that—dark, hungry—made something inside me twist tight and hot.

“S—Silas, I’m— I can’t— I’m gonna?—”

“Yes you can,” he said, voice thick. “Give it to me.”

His fingers plunged deeper into my ass, thrusting in that relentless rhythm while his mouth clamped down harder on my cock, sucking with fierce suction that pulled me under. The dual assault shattered everything—his tongue lashing the underside as he hollowed his cheeks, fingers curling to grind against my prostate—and the world detonated in a white-hot blaze. Pleasure ripped through me so violently I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. My back bowed off the bed, my legs clamped around his shoulders, my voice broke open on his name.

“Silas—Silas?—!”

I came hard, my cock pulsing wildly in his throat, spurting thick ropes of cum that he swallowed greedily, milking every last drop as my body convulsed and my cries tore through the room.

He held me through all of it, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth relentless until I collapsed back onto the mattress, shaking, spent, undone.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was swollen, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You say my name like that again, I might lose every bit of control I have left.”

My chest flushed hot. “I—I really liked that.”

He snorted softly. “No shit.”

“I mean…everything. How you… held me. How you…” I trailed off, my face burning.

His thumb brushed my thigh, gentle in a way that shouldn’t have made my throat ache. “Anytime you want that,” he murmured. “You ask.”

My breath hitched. “Anytime?”

A smirk tugged at his mouth. “As often as you can handle it.”

My stupid heart fluttered.

“You might regret saying that… you do have an MC to run.”

The second it left my mouth, everything changed.

His whole body went still.

The warmth drained from his expression. And the air tightened around us.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

He pushed off the bed so fast it rocked, raked both hands through his hair, then slammed a fist into the mattress once—hard—before stalking to the bathroom.

The door shut loudly.