Page 5 of Glass

I nod. I can't speak. I nod again.

He takes one step back. Goes over to a wide low padded bench at the back of the alcove and sits down on it. Leans back on his hands, relaxed, like he's waiting for a movie to start. Looks up at me. Not far up. The bench is high enough that he's almost at chest level. Close.

"Kneel."

I don't know when I moved. I don't remember the knees hitting the ground. I'm just down, legs folded under me, hands on my thighs because I don't know where else to put them, and I'm looking up at him.

And he's still dressed.

The realization sits in my chest like a stone. He's wearing a dark button-down shirt, perfectly fitted and buttoned, tucked into fitted black slacks that end at a pair of dress shoes I can see from down here. He hasn't taken off a single piece of clothing. He hasn't even loosened a button or rolled up his sleeves. I'm on my knees in front of him, naked, my cock hard and leaking, and I realize he may not plan to get undressed at all. Maybe this man is going to do whatever he wants to me without taking his clothes off, because I'm not worth that, because this is a scene he's running and I'm just the material, not the partner.

That thought should upset me. It doesn't. My cock jerks so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering, and a low sound builds in my chest that I swallow before it reaches my throat—something rough, something that wants to grab him by the hips and pull him forward and take. I press it down. Press it down. It doesn't go away. It coils tighter in my stomach, right next to the part that wants to kneel here forever, and the two of them sit together like animals in a cage that's too small.

Everything in my body goes quiet at once, the way a room goes quiet when someone finally says the thing everyone was thinking. This is what I came here for. The thing I couldn't name earlier because I didn't have a word for it. It's this, exactly. I am on my knees, he is above me, and for the first time in my life, I feel smaller than someone else. I didn't know you could feel small in a body like mine, but you can. You just have to be in the right room with the right person.

Oh.

Oh, I'm going to cry. I'm—no, don't, don't, you absolutely can't cry in a sex club, on your knees, at twenty-one years old, in front of a man who is about to—

I don't know what he's about to do. I don't care. My eyes are burning. I tip my face up to him so he knows I'm ready for whatever it is.

He leans forward. Takes my jaw in his hand. Tips my face up even more.

"There you are. Eyes up, sweetheart. You're doing so well."

A noise comes out of my throat that I would be horrified by any other day. Today I just let it happen, because doing so well is the best sentence anyone has ever said to me. His thumb brushes my lower lip. I open my mouth—I don't think about it, I just open—and his thumb slides in and I close my lips around it and suck, because that's what it's for, because I want to, because my mouth is apparently already his.

Those eyes crease behind the mask. Approval. He's pleased with me.

I would die for him. He hasn't told me his name and I would die for him.

He pulls his thumb out. Wipes it on my lip, slow, deliberate. Stands up.

Unbuckles.

Unzips.

He doesn't take the slacks off. He doesn't take anything off. His shirt is still buttoned to the collar, slacks still on his hips, belt still looped. Only the buckle and the fly are open, like he's just using a restroom, nothing more. He opens his pants just enough to pull himself out, and his cock is right there in front of my face, framed by the dark fabric on either side of the open zipper, lit by the warm low bulb behind him. It's hard, flushed, a little wet at the tip.

His hand goes into my hair. Gathers it. Pulls my face towards him. My mouth opens. His cock slides over my lips onto my tongue and my whole body lights up.

He tastes like skin and clean salt and something under that, the something that I now know is omega slick. His cock is warm and hard and heavy on my tongue. My jaw unlocks. Mouth waters. Stomach flips. Another slow thread of pre-come crawls down my shaft and I'm so hard it hurts.

I've never done this before. I'm bad at it.

I gag in the first three seconds. I drool. I pull back to cough and try to apologize around his cock and the apology is garbled and he laughs—a quiet surprised laugh—and I'm so embarrassed and so pleased I could die.

"Slower," he says. His voice is the same as it was at the bar, only lower. "Swallow. Breathe through your nose. Good boy. Just like that."

Good boy.

I take more of him. He watches me. The hand in my hair guides me—not shoving, just suggesting, letting me find the rhythm. My lips stretch around him. My tongue finds the underside and runs along the ridge there. He exhales, a small audible sound, the first one he's made that wasn't completely intentional, and I catch it. I'm doing something to him. I'm doing something to this man who has been doing everything to me. My whole body surges—an alpha surge, deep in my chest, something that wants to grab his hips and hold him still and take what I want—and I redirect it. Let it pour into my mouth instead, into the way I suck, into the flat of my tongue pressing up against the underside of him, and his hips stutter forward a half inch.

I could make him come. The thought detonates in my skull. I could make this man come with my mouth and I want that so badly my teeth ache, and I'm so hard I have to clench my thighs together to keep from spilling untouched onto the floor like a dog.

I want his balls in my mouth. I've never thought the sentence I want his balls in my mouth in my life. I don't say it. I don't know if I'm allowed to ask.

I taste his slick.