The question hangs in the air, and you realize you don't have an answer.
Your body knows what it wants. Your cock is hard and leaking, your skin is flushed, every nerve ending screaming yes. But your brain is still trying to catch up, still cataloging all the reasons this is a terrible idea. This is your vet tech. The door isn't locked. Marla is right outside. Anyone could walk in.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Elliot watches you, his expression shifting as he reads the conflict written all over your face. The heat in his eyes doesn't disappear, but it softens, tempers into something more careful. His hand on your throat eases, thumb stroking once over your pulse point before sliding away entirely.
"Hey," he says, his voice quieter now. "It's okay."
He takes a small step back, giving you space, and the loss of his heat makes you shiver. Your cock is still hard between you, and the evidence of your want is impossible to ignore, but Elliot doesn't push. He just waits, patient, his hands loose at his sides.
"I—" you start, but you don't know how to finish. I want this. I'm scared. I shouldn't. I need to.
Elliot's lips curve into something softer than his earlier smirk. "You don't have to decide everything right now," he says. "Let me show you it's okay."
And then he's dropping to his knees.
The tile must be cold, but he doesn't flinch. He just settles between your legs, his hands coming to rest on your thighs—not gripping, just touching, warm and grounding. He looks up at you, maintaining eye contact, and there's something in his gaze that steadies the panic fluttering in your chest.
"Just feel," he murmurs. "Don't think. I've got you."
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft and almost chaste. Then another, higher up. His beard scratches your sensitive skin, and the sensation makes you gasp. His hands slide up slowly, thumbs tracing circles, kneading the tension from your muscles.
When his mouth finally finds your cock, it's gentle. A kiss to the tip, his tongue and the piercings, flicking out to catch the pre-cum beading there. You make a noise, something between a whimper and a groan, and your hands fly to his hair without thinking.
His man bun is already loose, strawberry blond strands escaping, and when your fingers thread through it comes undone completely. The hair is softer than you expected, silky, and you grip it like a lifeline as his mouth opens and takes you in.
Slow. So slow.
He's not trying to make you come. He's trying to make you relax, and somehow that's more devastating. His tongue works along the underside of your cock, the piercing dragging in a way that makes your thighs tremble. He takes you deeper, inch by inch, and the wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming.
Your shoulders, which have been locked tight with tension since you walked into this room, start to ease. Your hips, which were braced against the table, begin to relax. You're still scared—of getting caught, of what this means, of how much you want this—but it's getting harder to hold onto that fear when Elliot's mouth is doing things that make your brain go static.
"Ellie," you breathe, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.
He pulls off just enough to speak, his lips still brushing your cock as he talks. "That's it. Just let go."
Then he takes you deeper, and the second tongue piercing—the one you'd almost forgotten about—clicks against the first as he works you over. The sound is small, almost lost under your ragged breathing, but you feel it, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
His hands slide higher, gripping your hips now, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm. It's still slow, still deliberate, but there's more purpose to it now. He hollows his cheeks, sucks a little harder, and your grip in his hair tightens involuntarily.
He hums, pleased, and the vibration travels straight through your cock to your spine.
"Fuck," you gasp, and the word comes out broken. "Ellie, I—"
But you don't know what you're trying to say. That you're close? That this feels too good? That you can't believe this is happening?
Elliot seems to understand anyway. He pulls back, releasing your cock with a wet pop, and looks up at you with that knowing smirk you're starting to recognize. His lips are swollen, slick with spit and pre-cum, and his hair is a mess where your hands have been gripping it.
"Better now?" he asks, and his voice is rough, wrecked in a way that makes your stomach clench.
You nod, because you don't trust your voice.
He stands, his hands sliding up your thighs, your hips, your ribs, mapping you with a sureness that makes you feel seen. His cock is thick and hard, pressing against your hip, and you can feel how much he wants this too. But he's still in control, still reading you, still giving you space to choose.
"Lie back," he says, guiding you with gentle pressure until you're reclining on the exam table, your legs dangling over the edge. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
And god help you, you do trust him. Maybe it's the way he took his time with you. Maybe it's the patience in his touch, the way he didn't rush or demand. Maybe it's just that your body has finally convinced your brain to shut up and let this happen.
Either way, when he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nearby counter, you don't tense up. You just spread your legs wider, an invitation, and watch as his eyes go dark with want.
"That's it," he murmurs, stepping between your legs, his hands finding your knees and pushing them wider still. "Gonna take care of you."
He guides you to turn, to lean forward over the table, and you do, trusting him. The rubber mat is tacky against your chest, cool where your overheated skin makes contact. His hand smooths down your spine, settling at the small of your back, a steady pressure.
Your body knows what it wants. Your cock is hard and leaking, your skin is flushed, every nerve ending screaming yes. But your brain is still trying to catch up, still cataloging all the reasons this is a terrible idea. This is your vet tech. The door isn't locked. Marla is right outside. Anyone could walk in.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Elliot watches you, his expression shifting as he reads the conflict written all over your face. The heat in his eyes doesn't disappear, but it softens, tempers into something more careful. His hand on your throat eases, thumb stroking once over your pulse point before sliding away entirely.
"Hey," he says, his voice quieter now. "It's okay."
He takes a small step back, giving you space, and the loss of his heat makes you shiver. Your cock is still hard between you, and the evidence of your want is impossible to ignore, but Elliot doesn't push. He just waits, patient, his hands loose at his sides.
"I—" you start, but you don't know how to finish. I want this. I'm scared. I shouldn't. I need to.
Elliot's lips curve into something softer than his earlier smirk. "You don't have to decide everything right now," he says. "Let me show you it's okay."
And then he's dropping to his knees.
The tile must be cold, but he doesn't flinch. He just settles between your legs, his hands coming to rest on your thighs—not gripping, just touching, warm and grounding. He looks up at you, maintaining eye contact, and there's something in his gaze that steadies the panic fluttering in your chest.
"Just feel," he murmurs. "Don't think. I've got you."
He leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, soft and almost chaste. Then another, higher up. His beard scratches your sensitive skin, and the sensation makes you gasp. His hands slide up slowly, thumbs tracing circles, kneading the tension from your muscles.
When his mouth finally finds your cock, it's gentle. A kiss to the tip, his tongue and the piercings, flicking out to catch the pre-cum beading there. You make a noise, something between a whimper and a groan, and your hands fly to his hair without thinking.
His man bun is already loose, strawberry blond strands escaping, and when your fingers thread through it comes undone completely. The hair is softer than you expected, silky, and you grip it like a lifeline as his mouth opens and takes you in.
Slow. So slow.
He's not trying to make you come. He's trying to make you relax, and somehow that's more devastating. His tongue works along the underside of your cock, the piercing dragging in a way that makes your thighs tremble. He takes you deeper, inch by inch, and the wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming.
Your shoulders, which have been locked tight with tension since you walked into this room, start to ease. Your hips, which were braced against the table, begin to relax. You're still scared—of getting caught, of what this means, of how much you want this—but it's getting harder to hold onto that fear when Elliot's mouth is doing things that make your brain go static.
"Ellie," you breathe, and his eyes flick up to meet yours.
He pulls off just enough to speak, his lips still brushing your cock as he talks. "That's it. Just let go."
Then he takes you deeper, and the second tongue piercing—the one you'd almost forgotten about—clicks against the first as he works you over. The sound is small, almost lost under your ragged breathing, but you feel it, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
His hands slide higher, gripping your hips now, holding you steady as he sets a rhythm. It's still slow, still deliberate, but there's more purpose to it now. He hollows his cheeks, sucks a little harder, and your grip in his hair tightens involuntarily.
He hums, pleased, and the vibration travels straight through your cock to your spine.
"Fuck," you gasp, and the word comes out broken. "Ellie, I—"
But you don't know what you're trying to say. That you're close? That this feels too good? That you can't believe this is happening?
Elliot seems to understand anyway. He pulls back, releasing your cock with a wet pop, and looks up at you with that knowing smirk you're starting to recognize. His lips are swollen, slick with spit and pre-cum, and his hair is a mess where your hands have been gripping it.
"Better now?" he asks, and his voice is rough, wrecked in a way that makes your stomach clench.
You nod, because you don't trust your voice.
He stands, his hands sliding up your thighs, your hips, your ribs, mapping you with a sureness that makes you feel seen. His cock is thick and hard, pressing against your hip, and you can feel how much he wants this too. But he's still in control, still reading you, still giving you space to choose.
"Lie back," he says, guiding you with gentle pressure until you're reclining on the exam table, your legs dangling over the edge. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
And god help you, you do trust him. Maybe it's the way he took his time with you. Maybe it's the patience in his touch, the way he didn't rush or demand. Maybe it's just that your body has finally convinced your brain to shut up and let this happen.
Either way, when he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nearby counter, you don't tense up. You just spread your legs wider, an invitation, and watch as his eyes go dark with want.
"That's it," he murmurs, stepping between your legs, his hands finding your knees and pushing them wider still. "Gonna take care of you."
He guides you to turn, to lean forward over the table, and you do, trusting him. The rubber mat is tacky against your chest, cool where your overheated skin makes contact. His hand smooths down your spine, settling at the small of your back, a steady pressure.