Page 19 of Stolen Harmony

Perfect.

I turned and kicked the door shut with my boot, locking it with a sharp click that felt final.

He was already breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he looked at me. “You sure?—”

“Take your fucking clothes off,” I growled, stepping into his space until his back hit the wall. “Now.”

His breath caught, and his hands moved instantly, stripping off his jacket and tugging at the buttons of his shirt. I didn’t wait. I grabbed his hips and ground against him, my cock already hard and aching behind my jeans. He gasped, head tipping back against the wall, giving me access to the long line of his throat.

I bit him there—hard enough to make him flinch, not hard enough to leave a mark. I wasn’t that cruel.

I was pulling his shirt off his shoulders while he worked on mine, fingers fumbling a little, distracted by the heat between us. He wasn’t drunk. Not like I was. That made it easier to push, to take.

When I had his chest bare, I stepped back for half a second and looked. Light hair dusted his pecs, and his nipples were already hard from the cold and the rush of what we were doing. He wasn’t sculpted, not like the models I used to flirt with in Manhattan, but there was strength in the curve of his arms, the subtle ridge of muscle along his torso. He looked like someone who worked with his hands. Like someone solid enough to hold the weight of a body falling apart.

I shoved him back against the sink, dropped to my knees on the grimy tile, and undid his belt in a single, practiced motion.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice trembling as I yanked his jeans and briefs down in one rough tug.

His cock sprang free—already half-hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. I licked my lips without thinking,then wrapped a hand around the base and gave him one long, slow stroke.

He twitched.

“Sensitive?” I asked, voice low, mocking.

He nodded, throat working. “Yeah—fuck, yeah.”

“Good.”

I leaned in and licked a slow stripe up the length of him, from base to tip, then swallowed him down in one greedy motion. His hands hit the sink behind him, gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His hips bucked, and I held him in place with one arm looped behind his thigh, my other hand sliding up to cup his balls.

He moaned, long and drawn out, and the sound was filthy.

I bobbed my head slowly at first, working him open with my throat, letting spit drip down his shaft, coating him in slick. His cock throbbed in my mouth, and I sucked harder, jaw aching, hunger blooming in my chest like fire.

This wasn’t about him. It was about control. About giving myself over to something physical so I didn’t have to think about the letters I’d never read, the mother I couldn’t bring back, the man I’d screamed at like he was responsible for everything I hated about myself.

His thighs trembled.

“I’m close.” He gasped, breathless.

I pulled off with a wet pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not yet.”

Standing again, I shoved my jeans down and grabbed the tiny bottle of lube I kept in my jacket pocket. Always prepared. Even in my worst moments, I knew exactly what I was doing.

“Turn around,” I said. “Bend over the sink.”

He hesitated for a second, and I caught his eye.

“Or do you want to leave?”

He swallowed, then turned. Obedient.

I slicked my fingers and reached between his legs, teasing over his hole, circling it slowly. He braced himself on the sink, chest rising and falling in sharp gasps, the mirror fogging up in front of him.

When I pressed one finger in, he groaned low in his throat and pushed back against me, eager. Desperate.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” I muttered, slipping another finger in beside the first, scissoring gently. “When’s the last time someone opened you up like this?”