Page 56 of Played By Design

His hand slides down from my hair to my jaw, then lower, fingers hooking under my chin to tilt my head up.

Then he grips me under the arms and lifts me back onto his lap, my knees wedged into the chair around his hips.

“Your turn.” He pops the button on my fly and drags down the zipper.

My dick springs free, hard and aching, and Kain’s fingers wrap around me.

I hiss through my teeth, my hips jerking forward into his grip. His thumb finds the bead of pre-cum at my tip and spreads it down the shaft, the calloused drag of his skin sending sparks up my spine.

“Kain—”

“Quiet,” he murmurs, and his hand moves, firm and sure.

His thumb circles the head on every upstroke, and my breath comes short and ragged.

My hands grip his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle as hot, liquid pleasure builds low in my hips. My ass clenches, slick soaking through my boxers, and I rock into his fist, chasing the friction.

“Look at me,” Kain says.

I force my head up. His dark gaze holds mine, and his hand speeds up, twisting on the upstroke the way he knows drives me crazy.

The orgasm breaks over me, my release spilling over his fist in hot pulses while my body shakes. Kain works me through it, loosening his grip as the sensitivity builds, but he doesn’t stop until my erection starts to fade and the pleasure tips toward pain.

I whine and push his hand away.

He releases me, wipes his palm on my hoodie, and zips me up with his clean hand.

“Let’s take a break,” he says, and pushes his chair back.

I climb off his lap on shaky legs. Kain tucks himself away and zips up, then reaches for my hand.

We head upstairs. Kain washes his hands at the kitchen sink while I grab a clean hoodie from the dryer and pull it on, the fabric warm and soft as it envelops me.

In the living room, Kain picks up his guitar from its stand by the couch. He settles into the cushions, one foot propped on the coffee table, the guitar balanced across his thigh.

I drop beside him, close enough that our shoulders touch, and pull my knees up to my chest.

Kain’s fingers find the strings, and a melody spills out, the notes wandering and unhurried. His left hand moves along the fretboard while his right picks individual strings, the sound clean and bright in the quiet room.

I track his hands, his thumb hooked over the guitar neck, his fingers moving with the fluid grace built from years of practice.

My head finds his shoulder, and I let my eyelids droop. The music wraps around us, filling the spaces between my thoughts until nothing remains but the sound and the warmth of Kain beside me.

He tucks me closer and rests his cheek against my hair. The position complicates his playing, but he doesn’t stop, and the vibrations of the strings travel through his chest, a steady hum beneath my ear.

The melody shifts into a song Kain’s been fiddling with for a while. As I breathe in, his pheromones fill my lungs, my body responding to him even when my brain is elsewhere. My muscles unwind, one by one, the tension I’ve been carrying since Lantern Key slowly leaching away.

Kain plays for what feels like a long time. The light through the windows shifts, afternoon sliding toward evening, and neither of us moves.

Then the melody changes into three descending notes, and my eyes open.

Kain’s fingers still on the strings, and the last note hangs in the air before fading. He sets the guitar aside and stretches, his joints popping.

“I should get back to work,” he says, hesitating before he continues. “You can stay up here if you want.”

I’m already getting to my feet when he stands.

We go back downstairs together, my sock-covered feet quiet on the steps. In the office, Kain drops into his chair, and I climb onto his lap again, his chest warm at my back, my head tucked under his chin.