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“He caught Ben's come in the napkin, the smell making his mouth water harder than any chile sauce could.”
― BA Tortuga, Collars and Cuffs

“I slip my hand beneath the warm water. He's hot and thick and fits against my palm just right. A low, tortured groan leaves him, and his head falls back against the tub edge. Gently, I work him. And he takes it, his expression almost pained. He's panting heavily now, flushed along the cheeks as his hips begin to rock helplessly in time with my strokes.
The sight is so patently sexual, so insanely hot, that my sex swells and slicks. I press my legs together to alleviate the pressure. My hand moves up and down his long length, a steady rhythm. "Is this what you needed?" I rub my thumb over his tip on the downstroke. "Me tugging on your big cock?"
"Oh, shit," he whispers, his throat working. "Oh, shit. Delilah... I..." His wide chest hitches on a caught breath.
The tips of his fingers turn white as he grips the edge of the tub. He's tensing, all those finely wrought muscles clenching. I jerk at his cock, squeezing a bit harder, going a bit faster.
"You needed it, didn't you?"
"Yes," he says, panting. "Fuck yes."
Macon's eyes close, his brow pinched. He licks his lips as he moans--- whimpers, really. That I've reduced this strong, stoic man to this quivering mass has my head spinning. I want to crawl in the damn tub with him. Sink down onto this beautiful dick and take him. But this time is for him.
"Are you going to come for me, Macon?"
At the sound of my voice, his eyes snap open. The heat in them sears me. "You want to see me come, Delilah?"
"Yes."
His lashes flutter. "Then make it hurt, honey."
The next downstroke has the water frothing. I give him no mercy, pumping him, pulling on his cock as he grunts and thrusts. He's panting, his straight brows knitted in a look of near pain, but he keeps his gaze on me, silently begging for more.
"You're beautiful," I whisper, squeezing his shaft. His nostrils flare as his hips lift, and a long, agonized groan tears from him. He comes in a fine arc over his chest and sinks back into the water with a shuddering sigh.
I gentle my hold but stay with him until he is limp and replete. We fall silent until suddenly Macon moves, grasping the back of my neck to haul me close. His kiss is quick but messy, like he's all wrung out but needs to convey how much he liked what I did.
The dark fringe of his lashes are clumped and wet from his bath as he stares into my eyes. "Thank you."
He kisses me again to punctuate the sentiment.”
― Kristen Callihan, Dear Enemy