Page 17 of The Last Dance

He looked at me, then the zipper of my pants, then me again. “Can I?”

It caught me off guard. I’d assumed consent. I liked that he made me say it. “Yes.”

His hands were steady. He worked the zipper slow, as if it was fragile, and when he freed me it was with a kind of surgical care. My cock was already hard—had been since the pole, maybe before. He didn’t pretend to be impressed. He just let it rest against the flat of his palm, weighing it, measuring.

He went in without a preamble. The heat of his mouth was a shock, almost electric, and he didn’t start tentative or slow. His lips sealed just beneath the head of my cock, tongue doing a slow roll, and he set the pace with absolute control.

No teeth, not even a graze.

I felt the flex of his jaw, the wet suction, the practiced flick at the spot just under the ridge. He used both hands: one at the base, squeezing, the other cupping my balls, rolling them with the kind of pressure that could have been playful or warning, depending on interpretation.

I watched his eyes. They stayed open, even when I tightened my grip on the arms of the chair. He wanted to see what it did to me.

I let him.

He went deeper, hand moving in counterpoint to the slide of his lips. There was no gag, not even when he took me all the way back, tip nudging the wall of his throat. He hummed, low and deliberate, like he was trying to vibrate it out of me. Pre-cum leaked salty on his tongue, and he took it with zero change in tempo.

I let him have control for a minute. Just to see if he’d abuse the privilege.

He didn’t. He just kept it, worked it, until I felt the edge coming and decided I’d had enough.

I put a hand on his head, threading my fingers through the short ponytail. He stopped, looking up. “Open wider,” I said.

He did.

I pushed in, slow at first, then harder. He took it, eyes never leaving mine, letting me set the rhythm. I rolled my hips, watching the way his lips stretched, the faint sound of wet friction, the saliva slicking my cock.

I gripped his hair tighter, used it to pull him closer, until his nose was buried in my groin and his hands had to grip my thighs to keep from falling.

He was perfect for this. The size of his mouth, the way he never tried to pull back, just adjusted to every demand. The only time he hesitated was when I pressed in hard enough to block his breath, and even then he waited for the burn before he drew back, inhaling slow through his nose. There was something almost reverent about it, like he was memorizing the taste, the texture, the inevitability.

I felt the orgasm building. My thighs tensed, my breath came in harder intervals. Iren caught the signal, bracing himself. I wanted to see if he’d finish.

I warned him. “Now.”

He nodded, just a fraction, and I fucked his mouth with three hard thrusts, coming in a pulse so rough I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He didn’t let go. He kept me deep, swallowing around the head, working his tongue to milk every last drop.

When it was done, he slid off with a slow drag, sucking the head clean before he let it slip from his lips. His mouth was red, wet, open. He licked his lower lip, then looked up at me again, a question in the lift of his eyebrow.

I sat back, heart still racing, and exhaled.

He stayed kneeling. He didn’t look away.

I wanted to reach for him—pull him up, drag him into my lap, kiss him or bite him or something equally primitive—but I forced myself to stay still. I wanted to see what he’d do if I didn’t give him the next cue.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at the vodka on the side table. “You got a cigarette?”

I laughed, sharp, surprised. “No. You want the vodka?”

He nodded. I poured two fingers into the glass and handed it down. His hand shook, just a little, but he didn’t spill. He downed it in one go, winced, then set the glass back on the table with a soft click.

He rested his chin on my knee, waiting for instructions.

“You’re good at that,” I said.

He smiled, small and secret. “I like to be useful.”

I considered that. Then I reached down, cupped his jaw, and forced his mouth open with my thumb. He let me, pliant. I pressed two fingers past his lips, feeling the heat, the spit, the faint scrape of his teeth. He closed around them, sucked, and when I pulled them out, he kept his mouth open, tongue out, daring me.