Page 177 of The Lies We Play
“You’re tugging my hair like you have notes.”
“I might.”
“You won the Cup. You don’t get to be in charge today.”
He strips my underwear off last, dragging the fabric over my cock with intentional friction. I hiss, hips lifting before I can stop them. He looks up, pleased in that restrained way of his, like satisfaction has to pass through security before reaching his face.
“Sensitive,” he says.
“Fuck off.”
It’s just noise.
He knows it. I know it. My body knows it worst of all because I want him so badly I could come from his attention alone.
He lowers his mouth.
The first touch of his tongue to the head of my cock punches the air out of me.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine, waiting for the flinch. I don’t give him one. Instead, I arch into him, and he rewards me by taking me in inch by inch, slow enough to make me feel every second. Halston isn’t showing off. He never does. He’s a tactician. A problem solver. A man who finds the exact point where control becomes surrender and presses there until I forget which side I’m on.
His tongue works under the head. His hand wraps around the base and squeezes. His mouth is hot, perfect, focused.
I make a sound.
I have heard that sound from myself before in this bed with this man, and I still don’t know what to do with it. It’s too open. Too needy. Too honest for a man who spent last night smiling for cameras with blood in his mouth and champagne on his jersey.
Halston likes it.
I know because he hums around me.
I jerk.
“Fuck, Hal.”
His fingers dig into my thigh, holding me down without turning it into a fight. The heat gets worse. Better. Both. My hand tightens in his hair, and he takes me deeper, not rushing, not showing off, not trying to prove anything. Just giving me enough to make the polished part of me go quiet.
His other hand moves lower.
I lose my breath.
He touches me like he knows every place I pretend not to need. Like he has been keeping a private record of what breaks my focus, what makes my hips jerk, what turns me from a man who can take a hit in front of twenty thousand people into this—spread out in his bed, aching, exposed, trying not to beg.
His fingers roll over me, slow and filthy, then one slick touch drags lower, teasing where I’m already open for him. His pinky presses there, barely enough to count, and my whole body shudders.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
He hums around me.
That sound does something cruel to my nerves.
I want more. Not just his mouth. Not just his body. I want the parts he keeps behind his teeth. The parts Liv reaches with one look and a badly timed joke. The parts of him that stand beside mine and hers and somehow make a life I never had the courage to imagine.
That is what they do to me.
Hal and Liv.
They don’t fix me. I’m not a project, not a wound, not a problem for either of them to solve. They make me want to stay inside my own life. They give me somewhere to put all this love before it turns destructive in my hands.
