Page 9 of Glass

Then I take him in my mouth.

Slow. Deliberate. I get halfway down his shaft and hold there, my hand on his balls, squeezing lightly. I hum — a small vibration around him — and his whole body tries to thrust and can't. The strap across his hips is doing its job. The muscles in his stomach are standing out like cables, and his jaw is open, and the sound he makes is not a sound a person makes on purpose. It's pulled out of him, raw, from somewhere deep, and his scent floods the room — dark alpha musk, almost burnt sugar, so thick I can taste it on the back of my tongue.

I pull off.

Slap. Denial.

Teddy sobs openly now, his cock purple at the head, a steady leak of pre-come pooling on his stomach. He's trying to angle his hips for relief and can't, the strap holding him flat, and his wrists pull against the cuffs — not struggling, just pulling, testing, and I see the leather strain and hear the bench creak under the force of it. He's strong. God, he's strong, and he's holding it, and the fact that he's holding it is more impressive than anything he's done tonight.

"Please don't stop," he gasps, and I catch the wording — he's not asking to come, he's asking me to keep going. "Please — whatever you want — please —"

I stand up fully.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my wrist. My own cock is aching, curved hard against my hip, and I've been hard for so long it's moved past urgency into a deep, heavy throb that sits in my pelvis like a second heartbeat. My slick has soaked through my underwear and is running down my inner thighs, slippery against the fabric, and I can smell myself now — sharp and sweet and unmistakable, omega in heat, mixing with his alpha musk until the room is thick with it. I've been testing him for maybe an hour now, and I'm done with testing. I want him inside me.

I step back from the bench.

Teddy watches me. His eyes are wrecked, wet, and they track me with a focus that's almost predatory. Not quite — he's still down, still held — but there's something in them that wasn't there an hour ago. Something that's been feeding on the denial and the pain and the praise and getting stronger, not weaker. I see it and I don't know what to do with it, so I put it away and keep moving.

I unbutton my slacks without hurrying. I don't look at him while I do it, but I'm very aware of his eyes on me — I can feel them, actually, like heat on my skin. I undo the button and zipper and slide the slacks down my thighs. Step out of them. Fold them over the end of the bench. My underwear comes off next, and then my socks.

Shirt stays.

I leave it buttoned. I untuck it and roll the cuffs to the elbow, neat folds. The hem ends just below my hip.

I'm naked from the waist down. My cock is hard and flushed against my stomach, wet at the tip. There are wet streaks of slick down my inner thighs, shiny in the low light. The dark button-down frames all of it — sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar still done up at my throat, and my cock jutting out beneath the crisp hem like something indecent pinned under glass.

Teddy makes a sound I haven't heard yet tonight. A low, hungry sound, and it comes from deep in his chest, from the alpha place, and his cock gives a thick pulse that pushes out another bead of pre-come. The restraints creak. His arms pull, and the muscles in his shoulders bunch and flex, and for a half second I see what it would look like if he weren't strapped down. What it would look like if he stood up.

"Oh," he says. Just that. Just oh.

I meet his eyes behind the mask.

"Yes, honey," I say. "Oh."

I climb onto the bench.

I straddle his hips, above where the strap holds him down. The bench is wide enough, and he is laid out for exactly this. I reach behind me, take his cock in my hand. He's so hard the skin is tight and the veins stand out against my palm, and he's slick with pre-come and my spit, hot, and when I wrap my fingers around him his hips jerk involuntarily — the strap catches them, holds, and a punched-out groan escapes him.

I guide him to my entrance. I'm soaked — not just wet, open, the muscle soft and yielding, my slick smearing against the head of his cock as I position him there.

I lower myself onto him.

The stretch is intense. He's thick — thicker than I expected, even after having him in my mouth — and my body resists and then gives, inch by inch, a slow hot slide that makes my breath catch and my thighs shake. I watch his face the whole way. His mouth is slack behind the mask, his chest straining against the strap with every breath, and his eyes are locked on where our bodies meet — watching himself disappear into me, and the expression on his face is one I'll remember: wonder, and hunger, and something that looks like it hurts.

I sink another inch. Another. He bumps against the spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I have to stop, just for a second, and breathe. My cock is jerking against my stomach, leaking, and my hole is clenching and unclenching around him in waves I can't control. I grind down the last inch with a small, controlled exhale, and then I'm fully seated on him — full, stretched, his cock buried to the root, and the base of it is already thickening, just slightly, a promise of the knot to come.

My own cock slaps against my stomach, wet at the tip.

Teddy is shaking under me. Not trembling. Shaking. His whole body, every muscle, the bench rattling softly with it.

"Don't come. Don't come, Teddy, don't come."

"Sir — sir, I —"

"Breathe. You don't come until I tell you."

I start to move.