The question hangs in the air for maybe half a second before you make your choice.
Fuck it.
You surge forward, grabbing Elliot's face and pulling him into a kiss that's more collision than finesse. He makes a pleased noise and then his hands are on you, one sliding up to grip the back of your neck, the other splaying wide across your ribs, pulling you closer.
His tongue piercing clicks against your teeth as he deepens the kiss, his beard scratching your chin, and you can taste coffee and something sharper, something that's just him. Your hands find his chest, fingers catching on the silver hoops through his nipples, and when you tug he gasps into your mouth and bites your lower lip hard enough to sting.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth wet. "Yeah, okay. We're doing this."
You don't answer. You just kiss him again, messier this time, your tongue finding his piercing and flicking against it. He groans, his cock thickening where it presses against your thigh, already slick at the tip.
Then you're sliding off the exam table, dropping to your knees on the cold tile, and Elliot's eyes go dark.
"Oh fuck," he breathes, watching you settle between his legs.
Up close, he's overwhelming. The freckles dusting his hipbones. The faded tattoos on his ribs—stars and script you can't quite read. The thick, dark blond hair trailing down from his navel. The scar on his thigh, pale against tan skin. And his cock, thick and flushed and right there, the head dark and already slick with want.
You don't hesitate.
You lean forward and lick a stripe up the underside, base to tip, and the taste of him floods your mouth. Salt and musk and something heady that makes your own cock throb. Elliot's hands fly to your hair, fingers threading through and gripping tight, not forcing but holding on like he needs the anchor.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice already wrecked. "Yeah, just like that."
You open wider and take him in, eager, maybe a little clumsy in your desperation. He's thick enough that your jaw aches immediately, the stretch burning in the best way. You hollow your cheeks and suck, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit, and Elliot's thighs tremble against your shoulders.
"Jesus—" His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper, and you gag a little but don't pull off. You just breathe through your nose and take it, letting him feel the back of your throat, and the groan he makes is filthy, punched out of him like you've hit something vital.
You find a rhythm, messy and wet, spit dripping down your chin as you work him over. His hands tighten in your hair, guiding you now, showing you what he likes. Deeper, then pulling back to let you breathe, then deeper again. His pre-cum is slick on your tongue, bitter-sweet, and you swallow it down greedily.
"Fuck, yes—just like that," he pants, his voice breaking. "You're so fucking good at this."
You moan around him, the praise going straight to your cock, and you reach down to grip yourself, stroking in time with the bob of your head. Elliot notices, because of course he does, and the sight makes him curse under his breath.
"Look at you," he groans, "so fucking desperate for it."
You are. You're leaking all over your fist, your jaw aching, throat working, and you've never wanted anything more than you want this, to make him come apart, to prove how much you want him.
His thighs are shaking now, his breathing ragged, and you can feel him getting close. His cock pulsing on your tongue, his grip in your hair tightening, but then he's pulling you off with a wet pop, and you whimper at the loss.
"Get up here," he orders, his voice destroyed, and you scramble to your feet.
He kisses you immediately, deep and filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he's chasing his own taste. You can feel his cock, hot and slick against your hip, still hard and leaking, and when his tongue piercings click against each other you moan into his mouth.
When he pulls back, he's breathing hard, his eyes black with want.
"My turn," he says, and his voice is pure gravel.
Before you can process it, he's spinning you around, his hands firm on your hips. You catch yourself on the exam table, palms slapping against the rubber mat, and then Elliot's body is pressed against your back, hot and solid and overwhelming. His cock slides against the crack of your ass, leaving a slick trail, and you whimper at the promise of it.
"Gonna make you feel so good," he murmurs against the back of your neck, his beard scratching your skin. His hands slide up your sides, mapping your ribs, your chest, before coming back down to grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "You want that? Want me to open you up?"
"Yes," you gasp, pushing back against him. "Fuck, yes."
His laugh is low and dark, vibrating against your spine. "Good. Stay just like that."
Fuck it.
You surge forward, grabbing Elliot's face and pulling him into a kiss that's more collision than finesse. He makes a pleased noise and then his hands are on you, one sliding up to grip the back of your neck, the other splaying wide across your ribs, pulling you closer.
His tongue piercing clicks against your teeth as he deepens the kiss, his beard scratching your chin, and you can taste coffee and something sharper, something that's just him. Your hands find his chest, fingers catching on the silver hoops through his nipples, and when you tug he gasps into your mouth and bites your lower lip hard enough to sting.
"Fuck," he breathes against your lips, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth wet. "Yeah, okay. We're doing this."
You don't answer. You just kiss him again, messier this time, your tongue finding his piercing and flicking against it. He groans, his cock thickening where it presses against your thigh, already slick at the tip.
Then you're sliding off the exam table, dropping to your knees on the cold tile, and Elliot's eyes go dark.
"Oh fuck," he breathes, watching you settle between his legs.
Up close, he's overwhelming. The freckles dusting his hipbones. The faded tattoos on his ribs—stars and script you can't quite read. The thick, dark blond hair trailing down from his navel. The scar on his thigh, pale against tan skin. And his cock, thick and flushed and right there, the head dark and already slick with want.
You don't hesitate.
You lean forward and lick a stripe up the underside, base to tip, and the taste of him floods your mouth. Salt and musk and something heady that makes your own cock throb. Elliot's hands fly to your hair, fingers threading through and gripping tight, not forcing but holding on like he needs the anchor.
"Fuck," he breathes, his voice already wrecked. "Yeah, just like that."
You open wider and take him in, eager, maybe a little clumsy in your desperation. He's thick enough that your jaw aches immediately, the stretch burning in the best way. You hollow your cheeks and suck, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit, and Elliot's thighs tremble against your shoulders.
"Jesus—" His hips jerk forward, pushing deeper, and you gag a little but don't pull off. You just breathe through your nose and take it, letting him feel the back of your throat, and the groan he makes is filthy, punched out of him like you've hit something vital.
You find a rhythm, messy and wet, spit dripping down your chin as you work him over. His hands tighten in your hair, guiding you now, showing you what he likes. Deeper, then pulling back to let you breathe, then deeper again. His pre-cum is slick on your tongue, bitter-sweet, and you swallow it down greedily.
"Fuck, yes—just like that," he pants, his voice breaking. "You're so fucking good at this."
You moan around him, the praise going straight to your cock, and you reach down to grip yourself, stroking in time with the bob of your head. Elliot notices, because of course he does, and the sight makes him curse under his breath.
"Look at you," he groans, "so fucking desperate for it."
You are. You're leaking all over your fist, your jaw aching, throat working, and you've never wanted anything more than you want this, to make him come apart, to prove how much you want him.
His thighs are shaking now, his breathing ragged, and you can feel him getting close. His cock pulsing on your tongue, his grip in your hair tightening, but then he's pulling you off with a wet pop, and you whimper at the loss.
"Get up here," he orders, his voice destroyed, and you scramble to your feet.
He kisses you immediately, deep and filthy, his tongue sweeping into your mouth like he's chasing his own taste. You can feel his cock, hot and slick against your hip, still hard and leaking, and when his tongue piercings click against each other you moan into his mouth.
When he pulls back, he's breathing hard, his eyes black with want.
"My turn," he says, and his voice is pure gravel.
Before you can process it, he's spinning you around, his hands firm on your hips. You catch yourself on the exam table, palms slapping against the rubber mat, and then Elliot's body is pressed against your back, hot and solid and overwhelming. His cock slides against the crack of your ass, leaving a slick trail, and you whimper at the promise of it.
"Gonna make you feel so good," he murmurs against the back of your neck, his beard scratching your skin. His hands slide up your sides, mapping your ribs, your chest, before coming back down to grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "You want that? Want me to open you up?"
"Yes," you gasp, pushing back against him. "Fuck, yes."
His laugh is low and dark, vibrating against your spine. "Good. Stay just like that."