Breathless...

𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆

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Simon's POV

Now that I'm finally alone with Baz, I can't tear my eyes off him, even though it's dark.

           But there's enough moonlight splaying over his porcelain skin, making him glow. And I want to ravish every inch of him. His head is leaning against the wall, neck exposed. Muscular arms are chained, in a straight line, wrists bound with his hands limp. Baz's lean legs are free and that could prove to be dangerous. . .

I try to use all the self-control I have. But it turns out I don't have much because within minutes Baz's sculpted chest is bare. His tightly corded abs are twisting and expanding with each breath he takes. And my eyes can't help but travel lower, and lock onto his belt buckle.

           No, Simon. Not without his permission, Simon. "Impulsive A-Bomb" Baz's sneering fourth year voice hisses in my mind. Fuck me.

I force my eyes away, and instead trace the indents of his hips. The smooth dips in his v-line. His pale skin, his prominent breastbone. I want to plant my mouth there, and never pull back. He's so fucking gorgeous it hurts. Hurts to not touch him, feel him, taste him.

Unconscious Baz gulps. The tendons in his neck ripple, near the hollow right above his cold, hard chest, where his collar bones connect. It was my favorite place to kiss. It is my favorite place to kiss. When I could, he would shiver or squirm every time my tongue filled the sensitive narrow space. His slender fingers would tug on my curls, long legs wrapping around me. The longing floods through my veins.

    My favorite thing about Baz's body is that no matter how cold he is or how hard his muscles are, every snowy inch of him is unbelievably soft. And gentle. He's so gentle with me, so loving, sometimes I forget his grip could crush bones.

     I want Baz. I want to melt right into him. Watch our bodies intertwine. And I fit right into Baz's hands, it's like I was made to be held by him. Like I was prophesied to arch into him, to straddle his bare waist. To lean down and pepper kisses all over his porcelain skin. Made to love him.

His bobbing throat catches my eye. I love his neck, it's so perfectly long and slight. Nipping the hollow of his throat. . . The soft grunts that leave his pretty pink lips. . . It's what dreams are made of. His little yelps. Just looking at him leaves me breathless.

       I let my nose graze his throat. Bazzy's heady, sharp scent immediately makes me numb. It's driving me wild—and I'm inhaling the deep forest cedar and the airy yet strong bergamot like he's keeping me alive. And I suppose he is. What would I be without Baz?

His perfect chin is before me. I think every inch of him is perfect. And his lips, Aleister fucking Crowley, his lips. Baz's parted pink lips. They're carved, sculpted like some ancient statue. It's like his lips dare you to desire him. . . They're so deliciously soft and tantalizing, and he is the best kisser there is. His tongue—it's the bane of my existence. Because I can't have it all over me all the fucking time. It's all I want. His mouth is the only part of his body that isn't frigid. It's warm and wonderful. And he tastes wonderful.

       Every stroke of Baz's tongue is flaming purity and flickering truth. His kisses are like a saccharine melody he'd play on his violin. An intense love. And aching desire. Heavenly pleasure. He tastes like raw emotions and forest fires and tender sweetness. Like a s'more. Crowley, my delusional obsession with food—I'm treating my boyfriend like he's a snack. He is. (A snack that is, not my boyfriend. Not yet.)

           I feel desperation's claws clutching at me. All I want to do is kiss his curved, angelic mouth. And capture his supple lower lip between my teeth and pull, I want to hear him moan right into me. I'm aching to feel his moans in my mouth. And against my ear. And against my. . . Just reverberating through my soul.

          Distract yourself, Simon, distract! You cannot kiss him, not until he forgives you.

           Apparently the best distraction is his hair. Baz's perfect long, silky black locks. They slip right through my fingers. Crowley. His hair. It's so luscious and. . . I think I'm losing my mind. I'm losing control over my eyes, too.

           A smile plays on my lips when I truly allow myself to just stare at Baz's face. His features are almost scarily sharp. Lean, prominent jaw—his jaw is strong enough to snap a horse's neck. His jaw that allows fangs to slip out. You can even see the muscle there. And those high cheekbones, I swear, they're sharper than a blade. They're sharper than The Sword of Mages.

            But my heart always melts when I see the soft shadows his lashes create over the planes of his face. His lashes are so long and dark, and the way they accentuate his silver eyes. His fucking color changing eyes. A deep blue and dark green melting into grey, or a bright silver—I'm dead jealous. Baz is so fucking gorgeous it hurts. I plant a ghost of a kiss on his arched, manicured brow. He's lovely.