Page 90 of Stolen Harmony

“My turn,” I said, voice gone ragged with want.

I straddled his waist, palms splayed across the hard swell of his pecs. God, there was so much of him—heavy muscle, peppered with hair, the slope of his shoulders leading to arms that could break me in half. I dug my fingers in, kneading, tracing the path of scars, mapping every inch.

“You ever let anyone worship you?” I asked, half teasing, half reverent.

He flushed, but didn’t look away. “Never like this.”

I bent down and pressed my mouth to his chest, kissing, biting, licking my way over sweat-slick skin. I mouthed over a faded scar, sucking gently, letting him feel the scrape of my teeth. He groaned, arching up, hands fisting in the sheets. The taste of his skin was salt and heat, and something darker—something just him.

“Fuck, you taste good,” I whispered, dragging my tongue along the curve of his pec, then latching onto his nipple, sucking hard. He hissed, chest lifting under my mouth, and I grinned, biting a little harder, loving the way his muscles jumped beneath my lips.

I trailed kisses down, pausing to tongue at the valley between his abs, biting along each ridge, leaving marks. He was all muscle and heat, every inch of him begging to be touched, tasted, claimed. I shifted down, kneeling between his spread thighs, hands sliding up the backs of his legs, squeezing, kneading, worshipping every bit of him.

“Didn’t know you were hiding all this under those boring button-downs,” I teased, licking a slow stripe up his torso.

He barked a laugh, then caught his breath as I scraped my teeth over his hip bone, mouthing at the crease where thigh met pelvis.

“Just for you,” he managed, voice wrecked.

I slid my hands under his arms, lifting them above his head, pinning his wrists to the mattress. “Let me see you. All of you.”

He let me, eyes dark and trusting, muscles flexing as I ran my nose along his bicep, then dipped into his pit, breathing in. The scent was pure man—earthy, salty, musky, intoxicating. I buried my face there, licking, nuzzling, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin, tasting the sweat and salt.

“Jesus, Rowan—” he choked, hips jerking up, cock straining the front of his briefs.

“You smell fucking incredible,” I said, almost drunk on it, letting the daddy kink slip into my voice. “Bet no one’s ever made you beg, huh? Bet you always took what you wanted.”

He grunted, hands gripping the sheets now, his composure unraveling as I worshipped him, mouth and hands everywhere, never settling for long. I licked down his side, biting along his ribs, mapping every scar, every curve, every bit of him that told the story of a life survived.

I settled between his thighs, kneeling so I could touch everywhere—palms gliding up his thick quads, fingers digging into muscle, squeezing, spreading him wide for me. My thumbs traced the edge of his briefs, but I didn’t pull them off. Not yet. I wanted to see him desperate.

I bent low, dragging my tongue up the line of his thigh, pausing to mouth at the crease, so close to where his cock strained, leaking, darkening the cotton with precome.

I pressed my nose right against the bulge, inhaling deep, letting the scent of him—cock, sweat, man—fill my senses. I moaned, lips brushing the damp spot, tongue flicking out to taste salt and heat through the fabric.

He bucked up, groaning, hands flying to my hair, holding me there. “Christ, Rowan, you’re gonna kill me.”

I grinned, licking a slow stripe up the length of his cock, feeling it jerk under the fabric. “You want me to stop?”

He shook his head, wild-eyed, desperate. “No. Don’t you dare.”

“Good boy,” I murmured, letting the kink curl through my words, voice dropping lower, filthier. “Daddy likes it filthy, doesn’t he? Likes it when I worship him?”

He growled, hips rolling up, grinding his cock into my face, rubbing himself over my mouth, my cheeks, anything he could reach. I opened wide, mouthing him through his briefs, sucking at the head, letting him use me. He fucked up into myface, breath coming faster, a string of curses spilling from his lips.

I let him, hands sliding up under his shirt, nails digging into his sides, raking down his ribs. He was burning up under me, sweat beading on his chest, the air thick with the smell of us—musk, precum, skin, want.

I licked and sucked, soaking the fabric, pressing my face into his cock, breathing him in like oxygen. He was everything I’d ever wanted—big and solid and wrecked, coming apart for me.

I pulled back, just enough to look up at him, lips swollen, breath ragged.

I dragged my tongue along the waistband of his briefs, nuzzling into the thatch of dark hair, mouthing at the base of his cock, teasing him. I pressed open-mouthed kisses to his hipbones, nipped at the tender skin, leaving marks, owning him.

My hands wandered everywhere—over his abs, chest, thighs, arms, shoulders, cupping, squeezing, never settling. I kissed the inside of his thigh, then moved back up to his pits, licking, sucking, drawing out the salt, the sweat, marking him with spit and teeth.

“Fuck, you like it nasty,” I murmured, grinning against his skin. “Want me to keep going?”

He answered by grabbing my hair, forcing me back down, grinding his cock into my mouth. I let him, drooling, soaking the fabric, letting him fuck my face, using me like he owned me.