[ And of course, Ian does the exact opposite of taking it easy on Mace — takes him all the way down instead, in a slick, torturous slide that has Mace’s mouth falling open, his brows furrowing in pleasure as he feels the head of his dick touch the very back of Ian’s throat.

That tongue dragging slow and swirling on the way back up right along the most sensitive part of him, and the soft, cool sensation of air on his twitching prick — fuck, where the hell did you learn this, Ian?

Keep it together, charming, and Mace would reply to that with something appropriately cocky, if he was capable of anything more than a breathless, frustrated moan. The fingers of his free hand grope blindly on the bed next to him, curl around a fistful of pillow so he has something to brace himself with, because if he loses it in the next two minutes like his cock is urging him to, he’s not gonna be able to look Ian in the eye for the rest of the goddamn night.

A moment’s reprieve as the fingers of Ian’s right hand give him a few, almost soothing tugs at the base of his dick, Mace thinking he’s got things more or less under control — and then, oh God, back again. The blood-hot heat of Ian’s mouth, the way it’s so fucking wet that his balls clench up with the sensation, his every instinct telling him to thrust into it until he comes —

Can’t, though. The echo of Ian’s words still in his ears, that teasing nickname — and Mace pants, his knuckles tightening on the pillow, his other hand rubbing restlessly at the wide stretch of Ian’s shoulder. ]

You got no idea.

[ His bedroom talk is going to take a decided dip in sophistication, sorry Ian. It’s shaky now, the sweet tease of Ian’s tongue against his underside as he sucks is doing Mace’s brain cells in one by one. ]

How you look right now. Fuckin’ gorgeous. Wish I had a, a camera. I’d take a picture of you just like this, fuck.