Page 105 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“Then show me how much you’ve wanted me.”

32

Eli

I can see the want all over him, but even on his knees, with my cock heavy in his hand and my body shaking above him, he’s still making sure this belongs to me before it belongs to either of us.

That should make me feel exposed—it does. But it doesn’t feel wrong.

That’s the thing I can’t stop noticing as his mouth lowers and his breath skims hot over the most sensitive part of me. I’m standing in a half-finished nursery with my shorts shoved low on my thighs, one hand braced against the wall and the other tangled in Julian’s dark curls, and some part of me knows I should feel more scared than this.

Not because of him—never because of him. My body has been a crime scene in conversations I still can’t fully hold in my head. Desire has been tangled up with confusion and missing hours and shame that didn’t belong to me but still knew how to make itself at home. Because consent used to feel, in retrospect, like a door someone else had walked through while I was too drugged and dazed to know it was open.

But this is not that.

Julian turns his face and kisses the inside of my thigh just once, and the panic I expect never arrives. It flickers, maybe. A little thing in the corner of me bracing for wrongness, for the old fog and the awful, delayed feeling of my body being involved in something my mind can’t reach. But this isn’t that; I’m painfully awake.

I stare down at him and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to survive this.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmurs, thumb brushing once beneath the head of my cock, not enough pressure to count as anything and still enough to make my hips jerk.

A sharp sound breaks out of me before I can swallow it. “Yeah, well, this is a lot.”

Julian’s mouth tips against my thigh, almost a smile, but his eyes stay serious. “Good a lot?”

I drag in a breath and nod, then force myself to say it because he asked for words earlier and I understand now that words matter here. With him, they’re not interruptions. They’re part of the trust.

“Good a lot,” I say, voice wrecked already. “Really fucking good, Jules.”

His eyelids lower for one second, and I feel the answer run through him in a shudder.

“Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he says against my skin, and then he wraps his hand fully around me.

My head hits the wall behind me hard enough to make the paint swatches jump.

“Fuck,” I gasp, fingers tightening in his hair by reflex before I loosen them immediately because some frantic part of me worries I pulled too hard. Julian makes a sound that suggests he does not share my concern.

His hand moves slowly at first, firm and exploratory, and the first clean stroke of his palm over me sends heat bolting up my spine so sharply that my knees actually dip.

He catches it. Of course he catches it. I look down just as he tilts his head and presses a kiss to the base of my cock.

“Oh my God.”

Julian’s laugh is low and dark against me, then his tongue drags up the underside of my cock in one slow, wet line, and language leaves my mind entirely.

I make a noise I’ve never heard myself make before, something rough and helpless that bounces off the empty walls of the nursery and comes back twice as embarrassing.

Julian’s eyes flash at the sound, and he licks the precum from the tip. “Fuck, baby. Give me more of those sounds. Let me hear how good I make you feel. Been starving for it.”

The sharp need in Julian’s voice knocks every last coherent thought out of my head. My fingers tighten in his hair, wordless permission pouring out of me in a rough, choked sound he clearly lives for.

Then he takes me deep, slow enough I feel the first stretch slide into heat, then seals his lips around the head and drags back with brutal intent. The wet sound makes my spine bow; I choke on a half-formed warning that dissolves into something nearer a plea.

“Jules—” My voice cracks, but he just grins, feral and proud. The suction punches a curse straight from my lungs. My hips jerk once, and he tightens his grip until I’m pinned, until the only thing I can move is my mouth.

“Easy, Liefling. Let me do the work.” Each word ghosts heat across slick skin before he swallows me again, deeper, throat flexing around the tip. Stars detonate behind my eyes. The distant baby monitor hums, but all I can see is him—tongue flattening, cheeks hollowing, the slick slide of his mouth as he sets a relentless pace.

He learns fast, because Julian always does. He knows me in ways no one else ever bothered to. Knowing how I take coffee and when I’m lying about being fine translates horrifically well into knowing exactly when to slow down, when to use his tongue, when to take me deeper, and when to pull back and let his hand work me while I gasp at the ceiling.