skz pet iguana

I lean in, unhurried. My palms settle on the solid warmth of his thighs, the cotton of his sweats soft under my touch, and slide slowly upward as I close the distance. My face is level with his now, close enough that his breath—sweet with the pineapple juice he must have sipped on the drive over—feathers against my lips.

“You’ve been a menace all these days,” I whisper, the words almost lost in the scant space between us. “You know that, right?”

He chuckles, low and soft, but the muscles of his thighs jump under my hands when my thumb strokes a slow line along his inner thigh. I can feel the want radiating from him—the way his hands twitch at his sides, begging to pull me in. He swallows, and for a split second, his composure cracks. Blink and you’d miss it.

“What you gon’ do about it?” His voice is a lazy challenge, all stretched vowels and feigned innocence.

My own smirk blooms, slow and sure. “I can think of a couple ideas.”

His eyes light up—a flash of mischief, of pure, unguarded anticipation. Desire already darkens the warm brown of his irises, turning them deep and endless.

“Oh?” His eyebrows lift—a dare, an invitation.

My fingers catch the end of his necklace where it falls down his chest, the cool silver a deliberate choice. I tug gently—just enough for the chain to draw snug at his throat, just enough to pull him into my space. His breath stutters, a quiet exhale against my mouth, and his lips brush mine, close enough to tempt.

But I don’t kiss him. Not yet.

Instead, I take his lower lip between my teeth—that full, soft swell I’ve thought about far too often—and nibble slowly, tracing its shape with the tip of my tongue. The hand still resting on his thigh inches higher, closer to where I know he’s already hard and waiting.

“This fucking necklace,” I whisper against his mouth, giving the chain another soft, possessive tug.

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” he murmurs back, the teasing clear in his voice even now.

“Oh, I did.” I lean back just enough to catch his gaze, holding it. “Especially the way it sat against your chest when you stripped down on stage.”

“You saw that, huh?” He chuckles, low and rough, but I don’t miss the faint pink blooming at the tips of his ears.

“You knew I would.” I tilt my head, amused. Then I close the gap again, my lips brushing the shell of his ear as I whisper, “It was quite hot knowing everyone was losing their damn minds over that stunt… while knowing I’m the one who gets to bounce on it.”

He chokes on a sharp gasp, his composure tearing at the seams the second my palm settles over the hard, thick line of him straining against his sweats. His hands fly to my hips, fingers digging in. I squeeze gently, feeling him twitch against my touch, and he hisses—a sound caught somewhere between a curse and a moan.

“Already so hard for me, baby?” Sweetness drips from my words, a false pretense. I catch his earlobe between my teeth, biting down just enough as my thumb rubs slow, maddening circles over him. His hands slide from my hips to my ass, squeezing—a grounding, claiming gesture that tells me this is about to get very, very fun.

He pats my ass gently—not quite a spank, not quite a caress. A promise.

“I’m always hard for you,” he says, and his voice finally drops to that register I know so well—dark, rough, and laced with danger.

His lips find the line of my jaw, tracing it with kisses, licks, gentle nips—starting at the sensitive hollow beneath my ear and working their way slowly, deliberately, to the corner of my mouth.

“Let me do something about it, then,” I murmur, holding his gaze.

But before I can move, his hands slide to the backs of my thighs. In one smooth motion, he pulls me forward, caging me completely between his legs. “Straddle me, baby,” he mumbles, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of my thighs through the thin denim.

I don’t hesitate. I let him guide me up and onto his lap, settling over him until I feel him—hard and aching—pressed right where I need him most. The contact steals my breath. His hands return to the swell of my ass, urging me forward.

“Grind on me, Babygirl,” he murmurs against my lips, before capturing them with his own.

His hands push my hips forward, dragging me against his hard length as my lips part on a moan. His tongue slides into my mouth, the kiss deep but unrushed—just the way he knows I like it: slow, sensual, messy. I feel the heat pool between my thighs as I rock back and forth, every motion guided by the steady pressure of his palms on my skin.

I find purchase on his shoulders, my fingertips tracing the hard line of his traps before settling in the dip between muscle and bone. A shudder runs through me as his wet lips trace a path down my neck—every nerve ending a live wire, sparking under his touch.

My fingers tangle in the short hair at his nape, tugging softly as I grind harder against him.

“This might be my favourite haircut yet,” I blurt out without thinking.

“Yeah?” he breathes against my skin, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Better than the long hair?” He pauses, his lips and tongue tracing their way back up from my collarbone to my jaw. “I remember you were pretty keen on showing me how much you liked that.”

Heat floods my cheeks, vivid images flashing behind my eyes—me riding him hard while fisting his hair, pulling the tie free as he pounded into me, brushing strands from his forehead while his mouth was between my thighs.

“That was…” I pause, searching for the right word, “…a novelty. You’ve always worn it shorter.”

“What makes this one different then?” he chuckles softly against my ear—the sound squeezes at my chest and heats my blood.

“It’s… shorter,” I mumble, “And this shade of blond…” I sigh when his lips find the tender spot beneath my ear.

“Yeah? Keep going,” he encourages, voice low.

“Somehow it makes you look more boyish and more mature all at once.” I pull back just enough to see his whole face. Our movements still, and I bite my lip, hesitating.

“Hmm,” he hums. “What else?” His hand finds my chin, thumb coaxing my lower lip free from my teeth. “I know that look. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It makes me wanna suck you off,” I blurt out, the words hanging hot and heavy between us.

He smirks—dimple showing, eyes darkening—letting the silence stretch until my skin prickles.

“Is that so?” he finally says, voice rough and deep.

I don’t back down. “Especially with that damn necklace…”

“So you’re saying… seeing me take that shirt off on stage got you hot and bothered?” His thumb rubs slow circles at the corner of my mouth. His other hand slides from my ass to my hip, pressing me down harder against him so I feel every rigid inch. “What did you do about it, princess?”

“The same thing all your other fans probably did,” I arch a brow, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

He laughs, a deeper rose staining the tips of his ears, spreading down his neck.

“You’re a vicious little thing,” his eyes lock on mine, desire edged with something softer, fonder. “Most people would be put off by that, but not you…” He shakes his head, chuckling again.

“At the end of the day, I’m the one screaming your name… Wait—no, that’s a shared experience too,” I frown, feigning confusion.

His laugh is bright this time as he leans in to kiss me, quick and sweet.

“I’m gonna make sure you scream my name until you forget about your own,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against the tip of my nose. “But first… by all means, let me allow you to fulfil your desires.”

I swallow thickly, mouth already watering.

“Think you can keep your hands off me?” I tease, already shifting.

I stand between his legs before letting my knees hit the floor, bracing myself on his thighs. My hands glide up from his knees, nails lightly scoring the cotton of his sweats.

“Is that a challenge or a warning?”

The way he looks down at me—gaze heated, voice wrecked, skin radiating a warmth I feel in my own bones—ignites a fire low in my stomach.

I cock my head, looking up through my lashes. “Depends,” I smile. “Which version of you am I getting today? The one that lets me take control, or the one that likes to dominate?” I wink up at him.

He shakes his head, a breathy chuckle escaping. “I knew you’d never let me live that down.”

My fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats. “Hey, you were the one who claimed it in front of a huge audience,” I smirk. “Doesn’t make it less true, though.”

His hips arch off the chair, a silent plea that lets me strip his sweats and briefs down in one fluid pull. His cock springs free, slapping against the taut plane of his lower stomach—the tip already a deep, flushed pink, slick with precum.

“Shit, baby,” I breathe out, the words tinged with awe. My fingers wrap around his girth, and he hisses—a sharp, bitten-off sound that sharpens when I drag my thumb along the thick vein running its length. I reach the tip, smearing the bead of wetness there in slow, deliberate circles.

“Fuck.” The curse is rough, scraped raw from his throat.

“Cursing already?” I blink up at him, all feigned innocence. “I haven’t even put my mouth on you yet.”

My thumb traces a second, smaller vein down his shaft, and he shudders.

“You’re killing me, love.” His murmur dissolves into a whine the moment my lips brush his tip—just a soft, fleeting kiss. I pump my fist once, twice, feeling him swell against my palm.

“Missed this,” I mumble against his skin, the confession warm and damp. “Missed you.”

His gaze clears for a second, sharpening through the haze. “I’ve missed you too.”

Then I take him in.

My lips seal around the head, my tongue barely skimming the skin as I pull back achingly slow. But I don’t take him deeper yet. Instead, I trace a path down his length with my mouth—kissing, licking, tasting the salt and heat of him. When I reach the tip again, I drag my tongue along a prominent vein.

“Holy fuck.” The groan tears from him, hips jerking off the chair, seeking the warmth I’m withholding.

I repeat the motion along the other side, but this time, when I reach the head, I let my tongue collect the fresh pearl of precum beaded there. The taste—sharp, salty, unmistakably him—floods my senses. Only then do I take him fully into my mouth.

My left hand braces on his thigh, fingers digging into muscle. My right stays wrapped around his base, pumping in lazy sync with the bobbing of my head. I start slow, relearning his size, his weight, the way he fills my mouth. My eyelids flutter shut as I take him deeper—each movement driving his tip against the roof of my mouth, my pace quickening without thought. When he hits the back of my throat and I gag around him, a wrecked, broken moan spills from his lips.

I feel the tremble in his thighs, the tension as he fights not to buck up, not to lose control. Instead of pulling back, I keep going, coating him in a mix of spit and precum until he’s slick and shining. Then I let him slide deeper still, holding him there until my throat convulses and tears prick my eyes—before I pull away, gasping, a silver strand still connecting my lips to his flushed, wet tip.

I look up. His head is thrown back, chest rising and falling in ragged heaves, a deep blush spreading beneath the loose neck of his tank. His hands grip the chair, knuckles white, veins standing stark along his forearms.

He moves then, leaning forward, eyes squeezed shut before blinking back into focus. My hand never stills, pumping him slowly, easily now with all the wetness between us.

“You’re so fucking dangerous,” he sighs, voice shredded.

“I know.” A smirk tugs at my lips. “Surprised you haven’t even brushed my hair back yet.”

“That,” he groans, “has been its own special kind of torture.”

A laugh bubbles in my throat, light and breathless. I return to teasing him—tracing veins with my tongue, circling his tip with my thumb, drawing out every shaky breath.

“I know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, strain tightening his voice.

“Hmm?” I hum against his length, the vibration making him jerk.

“You’re winding me up.” A low chuckle shakes through him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, the smirk in my voice giving me away entirely.

“Want me to ruin those pretty lips, baby girl?” His register drops into that dark, commanding tone that coils heat low in my stomach. “Want your throat sore and your mascara streaked?”

My thighs clench, a weak attempt to soothe the sudden ache between them. My breath stutters against his skin, and he knows—he’s turned the tables entirely.

“Can I touch you now?” he asks softly, though the question already holds the answer.

“Do your worst,” I whisper back, my voice trembling, already craving whatever comes next.

The air is thick and still, the only sounds the soft rustle of our clothes and the too-loud rush of my own pulse in my ears. The back of his hand sweeps my hair from my face, his touch cool against my heated skin. He tucks a stray strand behind my ear with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, his fingers then trailing the line of my jaw—a whisper of a touch that leaves fire in its wake. They come to rest under my chin, tipping my head back until our eyes meet, the angle both submissive and charged.

I can see him then, really see him—the slight tremor in his free hand, the way his throat works as he swallows. He grips himself at the base, the motion stark in the quiet room, and lets the flushed tip of him rest against my parted lips. Not pushing. Just… presenting. The weight is a familiar, missed pressure.

“Open up.” His murmur is meant to sound lazy, bored even, but it fractures on the last syllable, turning breathy and raw. The pretense shatters.

I don’t make him wait. My mouth opens on a silent sigh, my tongue curling out to meet him, tasting salt and skin and him. A sharp, punched-out sound escapes his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word all reverence and ruin. “Don’t you look pretty like this? Begging me with your eyes to wreck you.”

A fresh wave of heat pools low in my belly, a slick, aching awareness that soaks through my underwear. I shift on my knees, the small movement dragging a groan from him.

Finally, he slides into my mouth. Not a thrust, but a yielding. A slow, careful surrender that lets me feel every inch of him, the heavy fullness against my tongue a homecoming. I rise higher on my knees, eager, taking him deeper until he stops me with a gentle hand. His fingers leave my chin to gather my hair, pulling it back from my face in a loose, makeshift ponytail. The exposure is intimate, leaving me nowhere to hide.

“Close your lips,” he instructs, voice gone thick.

I obey, sealing myself around him, and begin to move. Up, down. A slow, worshipful rhythm, my tongue tracing the vein along his length. The suction is gentle, exploratory.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans, his head falling back against the chair with a soft thud. “I love that mouth of yours.”

His praise is a live wire under my skin. His grip in my hair tightens, not painfully, but with a new purpose—guiding me, setting a faster, more impatient pace. His hips begin to match the rhythm, shallow rolls that push him deeper with every pass. I brace my hands on his thighs, my fingers digging into the firm muscle there, readying myself.

Yet his voice, when it comes, is a soft counterpoint to the building intensity. “Ready, love?”

All I can give him is a hum—a vibration around him that is both answer and plea. It’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes my head down firmly, sheathing himself fully. The sudden invasion triggers my gag reflex, a harsh, involuntary convulsion around him. My eyes screw shut, tears pricking instantly as I fight to breathe through my nose. He stills, letting me adjust, but the second, deeper thrust is more violent. My throat spasms, panic flashing white behind my eyelids. I tap his thigh rapidly, twice.

He understands immediately. The pressure in my hair eases, though his hold remains, a tether. I pull back, gasping, dragging in ragged gulps of air. Drool coats his length, a shiny trail connecting us, and drips from my swollen lips. The corners of my eyes sting, tears blurring my vision as I try to steady my breathing.

His free hand comes up, cupping my cheek. His thumb strokes my cheekbone in slow, soothing arcs, wiping away a traitorous tear. The gentleness of the gesture, amidst the mess, undoes me.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, and the awe in his voice is real.

I blink, my gaze refocusing on his. Without the usual barrier of his contacts, his eyes are a deep, warm brown, shining with a desire so profound it looks like adoration. It hits me square in the chest, this raw, unshielded warmth.

I bite my lip, holding that gaze, letting him see everything. “Want you to come in my mouth,” I whisper, my voice wrecked.

“Yeah?” His exhale is shaky.

“Yeah.” I nod, never looking away.

A slow, dimpled smile breaks across his face. “Your wish is my command, then.” He leans back against the chair, settling in. “I’m all yours, baby girl.”

My hands return to his thighs, grounding me, as I take him back into my mouth. This time, the glide is effortless, slick with my saliva and his need. His hands thread back into my hair, gathering the strands, holding me in place as much as guiding me. He pushes my head down, and his hips buck up when my tongue finds that sensitive spot just under his head. I hum around him—a low, purposeful sound, a wordless demand.

Don’t you dare hold back.

He hears it. His next thrust is deeper, his blunt head nudging the entrance to my throat. I wrap my hand around the base of him, my fingers meeting where my lips stretch, and begin to pump in time with my mouth—tighter, faster. I am a study in deliberate ruin, aiming to shatter the last of his famed control.

He thrusts up, and I gag, but it’s fleeting, muffled by sheer will. He sinks back into the chair with a frustrated groan. Not content, I hum again, the sound a clear reprimand, and redouble my efforts, my head bobbing in a relentless, hungry rhythm.

I feel the laughter shake his body before I hear it—a soft, breathless chuckle at my insistence. His hips meet my lips then, a gentle, answering push. I force myself to take it, to relax my throat, to open for him. The first gag is mild, manageable. I rub my thumb in a small, encouraging circle on his thigh.

More.

He gets the memo. His hands push my head down harder, his movements turning faster, less controlled. My throat tightens around the intrusion, another gag tearing through me. He stills, buried deep, letting me breathe through the stretch until a third, harder spasm hits. Tears well in my eyes again, blurring the sight of him above me, but I push past it. My hand, the one not working his shaft, slips lower, cupping and gently massaging the tight heat of his balls.

“Fuck—!” His curse shatters into a broken groan, his voice stripped raw. His entire body tenses, the muscles of his thighs turning to iron under my palms. The control he’s been clinging to finally, gloriously, snaps.

His fingers tighten in my hair, not pulling, but holding, as he coaxes my head back just enough for a gasp of air. My lips and tongue never leave him, focused on the sensitive crown, the taste of salt and skin and him flooding my senses. The moment my lungs fill, I dive again, bobbing faster, taking him deeper. His grip adjusts, guiding the rhythm now, a silent, desperate plea in the push and pull of his hips.

“Shit, shit—don’t stop. I’m gonna come.”

His voice is shredded, a plea wrapped in gravel. It ignites something low in my belly. With renewed purpose, my hand works him in time with my mouth, the slide slick and perfect. He takes over then, his movements turning urgent, guiding himself from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat in a smooth, claiming glide.

A sound escapes him—a wrecked, guttural moan that vibrates through us both—and then he spills. Warm, thick, and impossibly sweet, flooding my mouth. He’s always tasted like this, like something addictive, a sweetness that makes my head spin and my body crave more.

I let him ride it out, my movements slowing to gentle swallows as his tremors subside. His hand falls from my hair, lax and heavy. Only then do I release him, the pop of separation soft in the charged quiet.

I look up.

The sight of him is a masterpiece of ruin. His chest heaves, each breath ragged and loud in the stillness. A deep flush paints his pale skin from his collarbones to his cheekbones, beautiful and telling. His limbs are loose, abandoned, as if he’s only now remembering where his body ends and the world begins.

His hands lift, fumbling blindly until they find me—my shoulders, my jaw, finally settling at the nape of my neck. The touch is a gentle tug, a wordless request. I understand. A slow smile curves my lips as I crawl back up his body and settle into his lap.

“Holy fucking shit,” he mumbles into the crown of my hair, his voice shot.

A giggle bubbles out of me. I rest my head against the damp hollow of his shoulder, nuzzling the frantic pulse at his throat. “You good?”

“Good?” He shifts, pulling back just enough to arch a disbelieving brow at me. His eyes are still dark, hazy. “That was… hands down the best I’ve ever had.”

A laugh bursts from my chest, bright and satisfied. “Glad you liked it,” I smirk, tracing idle patterns on his sweat-slicked chest. “‘Cause I’m not planning on stopping anytime soon.”

“Fucking hell,” he huffs, but it’s laced with a breathless chuckle. “You’re gonna suck me dry.”

He says it like a promise, not a complaint. We sink into the aftermath, a comfortable bubble where our heartbeats gradually find the same slow, steady rhythm. His body is pliant and warm against mine, a heavy, comforting weight. He shifts again, just enough for his lips to find my forehead.

The kiss is soft, lingering. It spreads a different kind of warmth through me, one that has nothing to do with friction and everything to do with belonging. His forehead kisses always feel like this—like coming home.

Then his lips find mine, a gentle, unhurried exploration. It tastes like shared sweetness and satisfaction.

“Let me return the favour,” he murmurs against my mouth, teeth grazing my lower lip with a tender nip.

“Later,” I whisper back, smiling into the kiss. “This one was to celebrate your successful domination.”

He groans, a sound of pure, defeated affection, and lets his forehead drop to bump softly against mine. “Agh! Far out.”