Chapter 22

22

QUILLON

T he sheets lay twisted around my legs, a tangled prison of cotton that seemed to tighten with every restless toss and turn. I followed the shadows dancing on the ceiling like specters in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. The digits on the bedside clock flipped with a silent yet taunting regularity, marking the time I'd lain awake—each minute stretching into an eternity of worry.

York's steady breathing had been my only solace, the soft rise and fall of his chest a lullaby that should've soothed me into oblivion. But instead, dread gnawed at my insides, an unrelenting beast that wouldn't be sated.

This should've been the happiest time of my life. In a way, it was, but my joy over being with York was overshadowed by my worries for his safety. The Robinsons had embarked on their Caribbean cruise, and two of the four new agents had moved into their home while the other two stayed with Miller and LaFontaine. It wasn't subtle, but we had found no other way. Everyone was on high alert.

Even with York gently snoring beside me, his arms and legs wrapped around me as if he feared I'd sneak off in the middle of the night, I had trouble relaxing. Knowing how real the threat against him was made that impossible, although Coulson kept assuring me they had eyes on those terrorists.

But I loved holding York and sharing a bed with him. The sex had been everything I could've hoped for and then some, with an emotional underlay I'd never experienced. I'd had quick fucks, hookups that had lasted for hours, and everything in between. But I'd never felt this close to someone emotionally, like our hearts and souls were as connected as our bodies.

I'd never considered myself a romantic, but now I could wax poetic about York for hours. Not that anyone had asked. I was dying to tell my family, but I couldn't while the case was still ongoing. It would raise too many questions, and keeping a low profile right now was crucial. But I bet that once they got to know him, they'd love him. What was not to love? The man was sweet, sexy, and so goddamn smart. Seriously, I felt like I was way out of my league. Yet we were perfect for each other.

York stirred, then blinked. "Why are you awake?" His voice was still raspy with sleep.

"I can't sleep, nerdy. But it's okay."

"Is something wrong?"

"No, this is me not being able to relax."

He yawned, stretching. "Wanna watch some TV together? Tomás has a nice TV in his bedroom."

Sometimes, it amazed me how much money Tomás had spent on a house he'd never lived in, but then I remembered who he was and how much money he must've made during his career, and I let it go. I was all too grateful to be on the receiving end of his hospitality.

"It's okay. Go back to sleep, nerdy."

"Like I can sleep now, knowing you'll be staring at the ceiling."

"You've had no trouble for the last week."

Oops. I hadn't meant to say that aloud. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to me.

York propped himself up on one elbow, peering down at me with a furrowed brow that made him look every bit the thinker he was. The moonlight caught in the silver threads in his hair, crowning him with an ethereal glow. This man—introverted, brilliant, self-proclaimed geek—had become my anchor in a sea of chaos. His mere presence could stir both turmoil and tranquility in my heart.

"You've been lying awake for a week?"

No matter what, I refused to lie to him. "Pretty much, yeah. I've caught maybe three, four hours of sleep a night."

"You must be exhausted."

"I can handle it," I said, my words a halfhearted shield. I couldn't fool York—his intuition was as sharp as his intellect. He waited in that patient manner of his for the truth to spill from my lips. "But yes, I am desperate for a good night's sleep."

York flicked on the night lamp on his side of the bed. "Let me help you."

"York, it's late, and you need your sleep too—" I began, but he cut me off with a soft chuckle, and a wave of heat rushed through my veins.

"Sleep can wait. How about I give you a blowjob? Might help you relax."

I froze. Was he serious? But the earnest look in his brown eyes, coupled with the resolved set to his jaw, told me he wasn't playing around. This was York offering a part of himself. His offer was genuine, and it was like someone had lit a match and tossed it onto the kindling of my restraint.

"Are you sure?" I whispered, holding back the surge of desire that his proposal had ignited.

"Absolutely." He held my gaze with unwavering certainty, but the tremor in his touch spoke of his anticipation. "I want to help you unwind, Quill. Let me do this for you."

The protective part of me wanted to shield him, to keep him away from my worries and what kept me up at night. But the undeniable truth was I needed him in every way a man could need another person. And if this was how he chose to bridge the distance between worry and solace, who was I to deny him?

"Okay." I couldn't hide the hunger in my voice.

"You'll have to teach me. I've never done this. With a guy, I mean. I've only been on the receiving end, so you'll have to tell me what to do." He traced uncertain patterns on my arm, a silent plea for guidance. "Will you show me?"

The admission struck me. The vulnerability in his voice was new, a side of York he didn't often reveal. The gravity of what he proposed resonated deep within me. Here was a man who had structured his life around logic and precision but was willing to step into the unknown for my sake.

I shifted under the covers and propped myself against the mountain of pillows in front of the headboard. "Okay, why don't you start by taking off my underwear?"

He eagerly reached for me, and I raised my hips so he could drag the fabric down. My cock was already half-hard. "Touch me, nerdy. You know what feels good…"

York's fingers, hesitant but intent, found my skin. He touched me like he was learning an instrument, with the careful concentration of a maestro and the awe of a first-time player. He stroked the length of my cock with one finger, following it from the base to the tip. It hardened from that almost innocent touch, and he grinned as he did it again.

"I like playing with my slit," he whispered as he put his thumb on my crown. "Does that feel good for you as well?"

"Yeah. Use a little spit, nerdy. Need some lube."

He spit in his hand and curled it around my tip, rubbing the slit with his thumb. "Like that?"

A low moan bubbled in the back of my throat. "Mmm, yes."

He repositioned himself, and I smiled at the deep frown of concentration. Like everything he did, York gave this his full attention. With his left hand around the base, he played with my slit until my cock released the first drops of precum. He spread them around, added a bit more spit, and squeezed the tip tightly. "Fuck, yes," I moaned. "Use your mouth on me, nerdy. Please… I wanna feel your tongue."

He bent in, and I held my breath. He stuck out his tongue and licked my crown, a tentative exploration. Without hesitation, he took the tip into his mouth. Apparently, he liked it. He suckled gently, using his tongue to make everything nice and wet, and god, it felt amazing. Sparking currents ran straight to my core.

"Relax your jaw." I threaded my fingers through his messy hair. "Take it slow, nerdy. There's no rush."

York followed my words like a lifeline, taking me deeper into his mouth. As he sucked harder, the pressure increased, and I held his head with trembling fingers. His skills were a long way off from the twinks who'd blown me in dirty restrooms, yet this felt more arousing than any of those hookups had ever been.

"Good… You're doing so good." I almost lost it when he hit a sensitive spot.

"Yeah?" The question vibrated against me, and I affirmed with a groan.

"You got me so hard, nerdy, so fucking hard."

His movements became more assured, his initial somewhat tentative curiosity transforming into confidence. He took me in deeper, and even though he gagged a few times, he was undeterred and tried again. His left hand was a tight circle around the base of my cock, forming the perfect counter pressure. I took his right hand, placed it halfway on my dick, and mimicked a pumping motion. Pulling that off took some coordination, but I had faith in him. Hell, the man had built miniature model planes. He could master this.

And he did. His movements were jerky at first, but then he got in the groove. He sucked with a newfound precision, the tentative touches of his lips replaced by the sure strokes of someone who had found his rhythm. I arched my back, a silent plea for more as he explored the length of me, each movement stoking the fire blazing through my veins. My hands found his hair again, fighting the urge to pull him down on my cock. One day, maybe, but this did the job just fine.

"God, York." I gasped, breathless, tightening my grip on his hair. The sensation was electric—his tongue, his hands, his breath working in tandem to undo me. My mind, usually so disciplined, unraveled with every confident pull, leaving nothing but raw need.

He glanced up at me, his brown eyes smoldering with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. No hesitation, no doubt, only a fierce determination to learn my body as thoroughly as he understood the complexities of his beloved equations.

"Just like that… Don't stop." My breathing became ragged while I punched my hips, seeking the warmth of his mouth. Control slipped from my grasp, but I didn't care.

And as York's confidence grew, so did his boldness. He experimented with pressure and pace, quickly learning what drew the most intense reactions from me. His name became a mantra on my lips, a vocal testament to the pleasure that spiraled tighter and tighter until it burst.

"Coming," I said between clenched teeth. "Fuuuuuck…"

York moved back, holding the tip between his fingers. Pleasure shattered through me, a cataclysmic release that left me gasping and shuddering as my cock spurted its load into his hand. By the time I was done, I was out of breath and boneless, sagging back onto the mattress.

York's eyes, wide and luminous in the dim light, met mine as he eased up from his position, his breaths coming in short bursts that spoke volumes of our shared intensity.

"Wow," he murmured, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

"More than wow," I said, my voice hoarse. "Thank you."

"No, don't. Don't thank me. I loved this. Loved doing this for you and with you."

"You needed little instruction after all. Guess you're a natural," I teased him.

He shrugged, his cheeks reddening. "I went by instinct."

"Go wash your hands." I caught the way he looked at the drying cum. "And then I want to snuggle."

He smiled as he rushed out of bed. A minute later, he came back with a warm washcloth and shyly cleaned my cock and balls. "This good?"

"Perfect."

He dropped the washcloth back in the bathroom and slid back into bed. I pulled him close, needing the contact of his body to ground me after such a soaring experience. We molded together effortlessly, skin on skin, the heat between us not just from desire but also from a connection that felt as necessary as breathing.

York laid his head on my chest, his ear over my heart, listening to the rhythm that returned to a semblance of normal. I ruffled his messy hair, absorbing the contentment radiating from him.

As the minutes slipped by, our breaths synchronized, a silent lullaby that calmed my senses. The restlessness plaguing me earlier had dissipated, replaced by a tranquility I attributed to York's presence. His body was a balm to my frayed nerves, his heartbeat a steady reassurance against my side.

Eventually, the pull of sleep became a gentle tide, coaxing me toward the shores of slumber with the promise of peaceful dreams. With one arm wrapped possessively around York, anchoring him to me as if I could keep the world at bay by holding him close, I finally surrendered.