Page 14 of These Hallowed Bones (Bloody Desires #3)
I remained outwardly neutral. The hunter in me understood the value of patience, of allowing prey to approach willingly, to believe the choice was theirs.
His touch became more deliberate. His palm slid up my arm to my bicep, fingers gently testing the muscle.
He tipped his head back slightly, looking up to gauge my response, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
I met his gaze, but said nothing.
His hand continued its exploration, moving to my chest. When his fingers brushed across my nipple through the fabric of my shirt, my breath caught audibly.
"It's alright," I murmured against his hair, inhaling his shampoo and natural musk. "You can touch me. I want you to."
His hand slipped beneath my shirt, palm flat against my stomach, fingers spread. The contact sent a jolt of heat directly to my cock. He shifted slightly, his knee brushing against my erection, a small sound escaping his throat as he registered my arousal.
"Can I..." he started, then paused.
"Tell me what you want, Micah. Use your words."
His fingers found my nipple through my shirt, circling it tentatively. The touch sent currents of pleasure straight to my cock.
"I want to touch you. Properly. Skin to skin."
A deep flush spread across his cheeks, down his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. The sight of his embarrassment mixed with desire stirred something primal in me. Beautiful.
"Then unbutton my shirt," I instructed.
He carefully began undoing my buttons. The moth slid from his lap as he turned in my arms, kneeling now between my legs, eyes fixed on the exposed skin. The sight of him kneeling before me, lips parted, cheeks flushed, sent a surge of possessive pleasure through me.
His hands were tentative at first, fingertips barely grazing my skin as if I might burn him.
Then he grew more confident, palms spreading across my chest, fingers threading through the silver-streaked hair there.
Curious hands explored my chest and abs, learning the texture and temperature of my body.
His pupils had dilated further, breathing quickened, and the silk pajama bottoms did nothing to conceal the outline of his cock clearly visible against the thin fabric.
"You're so warm," he murmured, nails scraping lightly over my chest.
His thumbs found my nipples, pulling a breath from me. He smiled at the response, repeating the motion with more pressure. The sensation sent currents of pleasure straight to my cock, my erection straining painfully against my trousers.
"Can I..." he hesitated again, eyes flickering to my face, a mixture of hunger and uncertainty.
"Whatever you need, sweet boy. Ask for it."
"Can I taste you?" The question emerged in a rush, as if he feared his courage might desert him if he waited any longer.
"Yes, of course."
He leaned forward, lips parting as they met my skin.
The first contact was a ghost of a kiss against my collarbone, so light I might have imagined it.
The second, more confident, pressed into the hollow of my throat, warm and soft.
By the third, his tongue had joined his lips, tasting the salt of my skin with a tentative lick that sent a jolt of electricity down my spine.
"You taste good," he whispered against my chest. "Salt and... something else. Something that makes me want more."
"Because your body recognizes what it needs," I told him, carding my fingers through his hair, the strands silky against my skin. "Your senses are waking up after years of forced dormancy."
His mouth moved lower. His tongue traced patterns across my chest, learning the texture of skin over muscle, the contrast of smooth flesh and coarser hair. When his lips closed around my nipple, a current of pleasure shot through me. The wet heat of his mouth drew a groan from deep in my chest.
"Yes," I breathed, tightening my grip in his hair. "Like that."
He made a small sound, his lips forming a perfect seal around my nipple.
Then he settled into a rhythm. Not the teasing or playful, but instinctive, as if he were searching for something he didn’t know he’d lost. His cheeks hollowed with each pull, drawing me deeper into the wet heat of his mouth.
The suction was intense, just shy of painful, a raw, primal sensation that lit something feral inside me.
The nature of his suckling changed something in his demeanor. His body melted under my touch, shoulders dropping, face slack with the kind of peace only surrender brought. His eyes had closed, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks, and soft, contented sounds escaped his throat between pulls.
"That's it," I murmured, cradling the back of his head. "Take what you need from me."
Arousal built rapidly, not just from the physical sensation but from watching him take this comfort, from being the one to provide what he so desperately needed. Something primal and possessive unfurled inside me as he nursed.
He responded by shifting position, moving more fully into my lap. His body aligned with mine, one thigh pressing between my legs, his own hardness evident against my knee. His hands wrapped around my torso, clinging as he nursed.
Five minutes passed, then ten, his mouth working steadily, the suction transforming into an ache. Each pull now sent jolts of electricity straight to my groin. My cock strained painfully against my pants, and the sweet ache in my nipple had intensified to something bordering on discomfort.
"Switch sides, sweet boy," I directed, gently guiding his head toward my other nipple. "This one needs a rest."
He made a small sound of protest but allowed himself to be redirected.
His mouth found my other nipple, latching on with the same eager intensity.
The relief in the first nipple was almost as intense as the pleasure had been, the blood rushing back, creating a throbbing ache that pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
"Good boy," I praised, stroking his hair. "So hungry for this, aren't you?"
He hummed against my chest. His hips had begun to move in small thrusts, grinding against my thigh. The silk of his pajamas created a whisper of fabric against fabric, and the damp spot forming at his groin left a cooling trail on my pant leg.
The sight of him like this—open and aching, surrendering so completely—sent fresh heat coursing through me.
My free hand moved to adjust myself through my pants, the pressure almost painful.
This was an unexpected pleasure, watching him find comfort with his mouth on me.
His body was hard, his touch electric and reverent.
He was unraveling, shedding shame and fear. Becoming. Learning to feel, to want, to grieve.
"You poor thing," I murmured. “When was the last time you felt safe? The last time you let yourself need ?”
A small, broken sound escaped him, and he clung to me harder, as if he were afraid I’d push him away. His hips moved more urgently now, matching the rhythm of his mouth.
I put my arms around him, not restraining, but gently supporting him, almost like an embrace. “Go on. Take what you need. What they denied, I will give freely. I won’t leave you, Micah. Not now, not ever. You’re mine now. You’re safe here.”
He let out a small sob and shifted his weight, letting me support him completely.
I recognized the approaching crescendo in his movements, the tightening of his muscles, the quickening of his breath. I hadn't come in my pants since adolescence, but the possibility seemed alarmingly real in this moment.
"Are you going to come for me, sweet boy?" I murmured, lips against his hair.
He whimpered and nodded slightly, his hips moving frantically now. His face had flushed pink, sweat beading at his temples despite the cool air of the room.
I lightly kissed his temple. "Go ahead. I’ll hold onto you."
His whole body seized as he ground down hard against my thigh. Even as he shattered, he clung to me, his mouth locked to my chest like it tethered him to reality. I felt the heat of his release soak through the silk, spreading warmth across my leg in slow, pulsing waves.
Pleasure took its time with him—no sharp finish, just a long, slow surrender.
He didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop holding on, as if pleasure alone could keep him anchored.
Even when the shudders passed, his mouth lingered a moment longer, lips trembling before finally letting go with a soft, shaking breath.
He slumped against me, spent and silent, his body heavy and trusting in my arms.
"I'm sorry," he whispered after a long moment, face hidden against my skin. "I don't know what came over me. I just needed to... I didn't mean to... I ruined the pajamas you gave me."
I lifted his chin with gentle fingers, forcing him to meet my eyes. His face was flushed, eyes damp, lips swollen and puffy. He looked thoroughly debauched and perfect. A masterpiece in progress.
"You’ve ruined nothing," I assured him, thumb tracing his lower lip. "Your pleasure was the point. I told you we were going to relax and enjoy ourselves tonight, did I not?"
Confusion flickered across his features. "You're not... angry? Disgusted?"
"Why would I be?" I asked, genuinely curious about the source of this particular fear.
"Because it's... wrong. Dirty. Pastor Morris said men like me are abominations."
"Pastor Morris," I said calmly, though rage flickered briefly at the damage this man had done to Micah's psyche, "was an ignorant, frightened little man who twisted scripture to maintain power over the vulnerable. There is nothing wrong or dirty about what just happened between us."
Relief washed over his features, followed by lingering embarrassment as he became aware of the cooling wetness in his pajamas. "I should clean up."
"Yes," I agreed. "Take those off. I'll fetch you something clean to wear."
He stood on shaky legs, hands moving to the waistband of his pajama bottoms. The front was darkly stained with his release, the silk clinging to the outline of his softening cock.