HAZEL
Baruch's hands went to his waistband. He unbuttoned his pants and pushed them down his hips, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. He stood there in just his briefs, the fabric doing nothing to hide the outline of him.
I crossed the distance between us in three strides. My hand went to his throat, fingers wrapping around the column of his neck. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to make him feel it. To make him understand who was in control here.
"You're mine tonight," I said. "All mine."
My other hand slipped into his briefs. He wasn't hard yet. In fact, he was warm and soft against my palm. I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked.
The friction was dry and probably uncomfortable but he didn't pull away.
I felt him twitch in my hand; I felt him start to harden. His breathing changed, became shallower. His pulse jumped beneath my fingers where they pressed against his throat.
