Page 40 of Fallacies

Lucina

“Okay with me?” Callan mocks, finding his voice.

I follow his eyes as they drop to his lap, past the hard ridges of his torso. With steady fingers, he pulls on the string tying his pants, freeing exactly what the thin fabric had been hiding—or trying to hide.

“What do you think?”

I think I fucked up.

But I don’t let that show on my face. That would be too satisfying for him. Instead, I’m greedy with how long my eyes linger, my breath coming out short and shallow. My tongue darts out to wet my bottom lip, and Callan curses.

“Fuck, Lucina.” His eyes shut, one hand digging into the armrest and the other curling around the base of his erection. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I know.”

My fingers circle his wrist, gently pulling his hand away to replace it with mine instead. At the touch, Callan’s lips part. His breathing deepens when I stroke the length of him once, taking my sweet time doing so.

I explore him unhurried, soaking in what I’d been so curious about. His big—I figured he’d be. But sometimes men with his kind of confidence are overcompensating.

Callan might have been under-compensating.

I stroke him again, and he hisses through his next breath, hips shifting slightly in the chair.

“Lucina.”

It almost sounds like a reprimand.

I lean forward and drag my tongue along the path my hands took. Blood rushes to my ears, my pulse beating throughout my entire body, and it only gets worse when he groans, shifting in his seat to get closer.

His eagerness spurs me on.

More confident now, I take him fully into my mouth. Reveling in the way he swells against my lips. Callan’s thumb slides up under my jaw, his grip tightening as I take the inches that will fit all the way to the back of my throat.

“Shit,” he exhales, more of a gasp than a breath, and if I could smile, I would.

I find my rhythm quickly, setting a pace I can tell he likes, and then I back off again. Stroking, teasing, drawing it out as long as I can.

Callan mutters every curse word in the book, his grip on my jaw tightening, but he never forces me father than I decide. Instead, he restrains himself, biceps bulging and lower abs flexing.

He’s doing everything he can to let me do this my way, and it makes me wonder what he’s restraining himself from. It makes me wonder what an unleashed side of him would be like.

The image sends a surge of heat to my core, and with the next swirl of my tongue, a moan slips out.

Not from him. From me.

Before I can prepare myself, Callan bucks his hips, thrusting nearly every inch down my throat.

Tears instantly prick my eyes, and Callan freezes. His grip on my jaw loosens.

Sensing his panic, I pull away. When I look up at him, there’s panic on his face—a whole lot of desire too—but he seems conflicted by the two emotions. Grey eyes flick between my face and my hand, still wrapped around his length.

“I’m fine,” I assure him. More than fine, actually. I didn’t drop to my knees in front of the Captain for him to restrain himself. “Do it again.”

Something about the statement sets his eyes on fire. His chest rises and falls at a rapid pace now, and I want so badly to know what he’s thinking about. Whatever it is, he’s fighting with it.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, tracing the line of my jaw even as he says it.

I decide laughing would ruin the mood. “You won’t,” I murmur against him instead, brushing my lips across the bulged vein running length to tip.