“Please don’t stop.” The words slipped out, Tom hardly recognizing his own voice. Leighton’s hair slid between his fingers like strands of raw silk. And Leighton’s eyes — pools of inky black, glittering with a harsh desire that Tom knew would be his undoing if he couldn’t find the courage to end this before it was too late. The hands on Tom’s thighs tightened, their grip almost painful, and heat shot through him, lighting every nerve with longing. It was already too late. He needed more of that touch, more of Leighton’s hands tearing the pleasure from him, more of Leighton’s mouth, goddess, his mouth, hotter and more skilled than any Tom had ever felt. Or perhaps it was just that it was Leighton — proud, controlled, overbearing Leighton, on his knees with Tom’s aching prick between his lip
