Page 38 of Locked & Loaded

I climb onto the mattress and get on all fours, facing the headboard. The position leaves me exposed in a way that makes my face burn, but the heat of it goes straight to my cock.

Behind me, I hear him moving—the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt buckle—and I glance over my shoulder.

Mads has picked up his jeans from the floor and is pulling something out of the back pocket.

A small bottle of lube.

A foil strip of condoms.

My breath catches.

I didn’t know if he’d be up for this. I didn’t know if, after last night, he’d want to go further. Hand jobs are one thing. This is different. This is him thinking about it, planning for it, bringing supplies to my room like there was a chance we’d end up here and he wanted to be ready.

Heat blooms low in my stomach.

Mads catches me staring and holds my gaze. For a second, he looks almost shy.

“Hope that’s okay,” he says.

I nod, my throat too tight for words.

He tosses the lube and condoms onto the bedspread next to me, then climbs onto the mattress behind me. The bed dips under his weight. His hands settle on my ass before he spreads me open.

Cool air hits my hole, and my body goes tight with anticipation.

I brace myself for his fingers.

What I get is his tongue.

Holy shit.

It’s warm, wet, and so unexpected that I cry out and drop my forehead to the mattress. My whole body jerks, my cock throbbing between my legs.

I twist around to look at him.

Mads is kneeling behind me with his face between my asscheeks, and the expression on him is almost mesmerized. Like he meant to try this and somehow got caught off guard by how much he likes it.

Then he makes a sound. Quiet, hungry, completely unlike him.

“Is this okay?” he asks, pulling back after a moment. His voice is rough.

“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”

He goes back to it, slower now. His tongue traces the rim of my hole in tight circles, and the slick heat of it makes my legs shake. He licks me like he’s learning me, figuring out what makes my breath catch, what makes my hips push back, what makes me lose the thread of every coherent thought I’ve ever had.

I’m hard and leaking onto the sheets beneath me, my cock aching, and the combination of his mouth on my ass and the visual of Mads Holm—Mads fucking Holm—eating me out like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever done is too much.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I gasp, my voice breaking.

There’s a pause.

Then, muffled against my skin, he says, “I googled it. Today.”

I laugh, a choked, breathless sound, and drop my forehead to the mattress again. “You what?”

“Googled it,” he says, and I can hear the embarrassed smile in his voice. “How to do a rim job. The internet has guides.”

The mental image of Mads Holm sitting in the hotel bar with his phone in his hand, googling "How to do a rim job" while pretending to watch hockey, is so fucking endearing and ridiculous I could die.