And his direction isn’t necessary. Heat is already unfurling inside of me, spreading so quickly and thoroughly I couldn’t douse it even if I wanted to. It’s the natural physical response, but I’m more wrapped up in it mentally than I normally would be. I’m aware of—actively thinking about, actually—who is touching me. I’m not just enjoying the pleasure. I’m luxuriating in it, savoring every second of contact.

Adler Beck has the type of presence you couldn’t forget you’re in if you tried. Being the sole recipient of his full attention is a heady feeling.

I’m drunk on it—intoxicated—like I’ve just rapidly downed a few shots of gin. Maybe that’s why I sink to my knees as soon as the ecstasy begins to wane. I tend to be the selfish, non-reciprocating sort when it comes to oral sex, especially when there’s a cement floor involved—but the allure of having Adler Beck at my mercy is too tantalizing to resist.

“Fuck.” He swears as I yank down his mesh shorts and boxer briefs. There’s a lot packed in those four letters. They slide out of his mouth like they’re coated in dark chocolate and dipped in smooth whiskey. Anticipation tastes delicious.

“Are you sure this isn’t what you were thinking about?” I tease as I stroke his substantial length and wet my lips.

“Not while you were playing,” he replies. “But I’ve definitely thought about it.”

I’m lacking many things. Confidence is not one of them, but the knowledge that Adler Beck has fantasized about me doing this gives my ego a pretty epic boost, even as I appear nonchalant. I lick him like a dick pop and am rewarded when his hips jerk closer. He may have the height advantage right now, but I’m in complete control of this moment. Of him. I can’t copy his command while my mouth is full of his cock, but I don’t need to. He comes quickly, with a gruff groan that makes my toes curl inside my sneakers.

I stand, wincing a bit when the blood rushes back into my calves. My hair is no longer dripping wet, but it’s still damp from my shower, and I pull it up in a messy ponytail to have something to do with my hands, and to hide any evidence of Beck’s effect on the strands.

I don’t know quite what to say to him. I always have something to say. It may be brash and blunt, but the words are there. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not awestruck. I’m just… unsure. It’s like something shifted between us, which is ridiculous. We’ve had sex twice already.

This was a continuation.

A regression.

A remnant of lust.