The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

  “Shit. Shit.” He keeps pumping, and I know it’s leaking back over his dick because I can’t swallow fast enough with him taking up all that space in my mouth.

  His grip on my hair pulls me off his dick. “Stop. God.”

  I swallow what’s left in my mouth and lick my lips, glancing up to see him squinting at me.

  His breaths are still fast. I rest my head on his thigh and watch his dick. It’s still hard, but definitely going down. Cael tugs on my hair again.

  “C’mere.”

  I slide up, find a tiny bit of space for my hip on the mattress and drape myself over his chest. His hand moves from my hair to my back, firm, long strokes.

  He lets out a shaky breath. “I really need to thank Kiani.”

  She’d introduced us, but since I was the one who’d sucked his dick, I thought I deserved at least an honorable mention.

  He turns, and we’re chest to chest on our sides on his narrow bed. He slings an arm around my waist. “She gets a thank you. You…” his palm does one of those hard strokes along my spine, “…get to choose your reward.”

  Had he read my thought on my face? I think about him fucking me, holding me and making me take it. He keeps rubbing my back, so I guess that part didn’t come through. On his next stroke down my back, his hand grabs my ass.

  Yes. Fuck me.

  We roll so I’m on the bottom. He kisses down my chest, flicks his tongue over one of my nipples. That makes a good shiver break across my skin. He sucks on it, and my hips drive up, angling for friction.

  Grady—Cael’s mouth is hot and wet. The edge of his beard prickles as he licks—oh God, a guy is licking—my chest. I keep peeking at him to make sure he’s really there. That this isn’t only another jerk-off fantasy.

  Cael lifts his head and looks at me. “Did you think of any requests?”

  It’s not only that the thought of asking for anything out loud is paralyzing, it’s that I’m terrified that once I say one thing, it will all spill out. A big, long, needy, neurotic freak list.

  “What you’re doing is fine.”

  His hands release my hips and he smirks. “Just talking then?”

  “Asshole.” God. I can’t believe I just called a guy who is actually interested in sex with me an asshole. Worse, that I did it before I got off.

  He gives me that smirk. “What do you want me to do with your asshole, Trevor?”

  “Uh—” My mouth is so dry I can hear the crack as I try to answer.

  “Rim you? Finger you?”

  Fuck me?

  How long before his roommate came back? Long enough for him to get hard again?

  “Hang on a sec.” Cael rolls so his arm reaches behind him, hand digging in a drawer under his bed. He drops a bottle on my stomach. It’s big, it’s got a pump handle, and it’s half empty.

  My brain comes up with a few hypotheses for that, and then I forget them when Cael drags his tongue from the base of my dick to the tip.

  I expected it to feel different than a hand, even a nice lotioned hand, but it’s electric. The wet, the texture, the way it curls and flicks over the head.

  “Jes-us.” I want to hold his head there so he can’t ever stop. I want to collapse and let him do what he wants to me so he’ll keep doing it.

  I swear I can feel his smile as his lips brush the head of my dick. He kisses it, Frenches it. I’m shaking. God. It was insanely unfair to have spent the last four years jerking off with just my hand when a mouth could feel like this.

  I buck, but his grip on my hips keeps me from going deeper into his mouth, holding me in place for the soft torture.

  Not only am I not used to a mouth on my dick, I’m not used to holding back once I get started. I never saw any point to not racing to come.

  Cael kisses my dick like he doesn’t care when I come. It’s so damned good, but no way is that kind of pressure going to get me anywhere. He glances up at me. Jesus, he’s looking at me with his mouth on my dick, and my balls go hot and tight as the ache runs up my cock.

  I need, I really need. He pumps some lube into his hand, and a drop lands on my belly, on the edge of my pubes. He dips his fingers in it, trails them down the crease of my groin, and then they’re under my balls, lifting them as his mouth sinks farther on my dick.

  I shake again, hard, like a fever spasm. Cael raises his head and looks at me. He’s not smirking now, not even smiling. His eyebrows squinch down toward his nose.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  He’s still staring at me, and I panic, thinking he’s going to stop.

  “I’m good. I’m fine. I like—I really like everything you’re doing.” Goddamn it. I can’t even do this right.

  His finger slides back, and I feel it pressing, rubbing. It’s so much better than mine, and when he pushes in, my hips, my balls, my belly, everything feels perfectly loose and hungry for more. But that’s all I get, just the tip of his finger and his mouth on my dick, tongue swirling, his other hand on the shaft.

  It’s good, I love it. I do. But I don’t think I’m going to come. That edge is far away. The sensations here are sweet and warm.

  Cael sucks my dick, hand working the shaft, finger pumping lightly in my ass. I don’t know what throws the switch, maybe his tongue flicking under the head of my cock, maybe his finger pushing in a little deeper, but suddenly I want to come. I need to come. And I fucking can’t.

  Cael’s hand goes harder, lips tight.

  “Yes. Please.” I know I’ve been breathing hard, and I remember how hearing what I did to him made me want to take him deep into my mouth. But coming still feels too far away. “Please.” I hear the desperation in my voice. I knew what I was begging for, that sharp, perfect feeling that would tip me over into coming, but I don’t know what else I expect him to do.

  My hands are fists at my sides. “Please.”

  Cael lifts his head, stroking the whole length of my dick. His voice is gentle. “What? Tell me what you want.”

  I want—

  I want pain. I want my ass hot and throbbing from Grady’s paddle. I want the dizzying fear that I can’t fucking take it, but he’s going to make me.

  I squeeze my ass around his finger, and it almost hurts enough. “More. Harder.” I push my hips to get his finger in deeper.

  Cael isn’t stupid, thank God. He shoves another finger in, and it burns.

  His mouth is barely on my dick again before I feel it. “I’m going to—”

  His lips tighten, friction scrapes inside my ass, and I am coming, hard jerks of my body as my cock spits in his mouth, and then on his lips as he lifts his head, his hand pulling the rest of the orgasm out of me.

  My balls have barely stopped pumping when a weight crashes into me. A huge boulder crushes my chest so I can only make tiny gasps as I try to catch my breath. I squeeze my eyes shut against guilt and shame and embarrassment.

  I really am a freak. Some hot guy takes me to bed and sucks my dick, and I still need that extra rush of pain to get off. It’s only supposed to make jerking off better, not like I’m some kind of—addict.

  “Trev—man, you good?”

  With my eyes squinched shut, faking sleep isn’t going to cut it.

  On top of everything else, this is all just weird. I’m sticky-wet, ass and dick. The shift in air tells me Cael is leaning up over my chest now. Opening my eyes and looking at him is impossible. My jizz on his face was hot when it happened, but now I don’t want to see it. I want to wake up in my bed in Grady’s house. People actually have conversations after they have sex?

  “Trevor?” Cael sounds worried.

  Short of trying to get dressed blind, I guess I’m going to have to look at him. I do. His eyes are the shifting brown and green from the night we met, bright in the sunlight from a window. He’s peering at me with his brows doing that deep V toward his nose. He’s still seriously cute. And maybe the fact that his beard and lips are shining isn’t gross. It’s my come. He wanted me to come. The
pressure in my chest eases a little.

  “Yeah.” I get a deeper breath. I smile as much as I can, hoping it looks okay. “I’m good.” With the shame fading, there’s a warm, sweet feel of relaxation in my muscles, like getting in the shower after Grady’s had me lifting weights.

  Cael makes a big sigh that sounds real rather than exaggerated. “Had me freaked. It’s a lot of responsibility, you know, being—”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” It’s not like it’s a secret, the rest of his sentence. But it bugs me. Being your first. What’s the big deal? Of course, I made it a big deal by having a breakdown.

  Cael stretches out next to me, and I turn on my side to make room for him. He cocks an elbow so he can rest his head on his palm. “Don’t want to scar you for life.” He grins.

  Too late. I scarred myself somehow.

  Chapter 13

  Grady

  HE’S nothing like Trevor. He’s tall and broad-shouldered. He’s older, his sandy hair streaked with gray. But all I care is he could be anyone as he takes my dick without a sound, fingers closing over my hand where I’m holding the stall door for leverage. The bathroom of the Back Alley has that heavy nuts-and-ass smell mixed with spunk that only gay bars get, but if I lean in, I can get a whiff of his aftershave. Something clean and citrus bright, too young for him, or me. I put my head back. The funk in the air fits my mood better.

  I push his legs a little farther apart and grab his waist, fingers tight to skin under the golf shirt he’s wearing. He gasps to let me know I’ve got a better angle now, thrusting deeper, harder. As if this time I can burn the thoughts out of my head with the force of this fuck.

  I didn’t plan any of this. But after I dropped off Trevor for his date, I’d found myself crossing back over on the Mass Ave Bridge and heading east. After that I couldn’t kid myself anymore. I was parking the Jeep in Midtown and headed for the Back Alley because I couldn’t stand going back to my formerly pleasantly empty house with nothing to do but picture Trevor getting sucked off by some preppy college boy.

  Instead of me.

  I hit the bar because I didn’t want a type. I wanted oblivion. Because it wasn’t just Trevor’s tight little ass and pouting mouth I lusted after anymore. It was his smiles, his dimples, the way he looked at me like I had the answers.

  All the answers but one. How the fuck to keep my hands off him.

  The guy’s ass tightens around me, and my nuts shift, drawing up.

  “Want a hand?” I whisper, though the bathroom’s empty. There were barely six guys at the bar this early on a Sunday.

  “Got it.” He takes care of himself, leaving me to concentrate on the friction.

  My dick’s wrapped, but I’ve got a slick sensation from lube under the condom, and the guy knows how to use his muscles, milking me right.

  Which fucking overprivileged fucker on that street had it been? The one in the leather jacket, attitude over comfort in the cold? The one with the stupid streak of blue in his hair, smoking while huddled in his too-carefully ripped army jacket. Or the ginger-beard under a hipster hat, the one who looked like he could shit in his hand and come up with gold?

  Fuck them. Fuck me. I grab the guy’s hips and slam us together, his choked breaths sounding like my dick is cutting the air to his throat. It’s how I always fuck, how men fuck.

  Even if Trevor weren’t seventeen and Frank’s kid, I’ve got no business pulling Trevor away from whatever fondling and fumbling he’s getting with boys his age.

  I drag myself back to dick, ass, and the smell of sex. The guy’s breathing changes, ass swallowing me before clamping down as he comes, muscles clenched to almost force me out. The resistance creates perfect friction, dragging on my shaft, fluttering against the head as I pound him with long strokes. He tightens again, not from shooting, but for me. Fuck, he’s good.

  I drive in deep as my orgasm hits, coming down in hard pulses from my balls, slick and hot on the head of my dick where it’s cradled in his ass. My shoulders drop as my muscles loosen up.

  He blows out a breath, relaxing around me, and I pull out. When I turn back from wiping off my dick and flushing the condom, he’s gone.

  *

  Despite the fucking frigid wind off the harbor, I walk east for awhile. My worst fear waking up after the bomb was that I’d lose that, the simple ability to move wherever the fuck I wanted to go. I’d never been one to sit. Trevor can stare down at his phone for hours concentrating on some game, until I’m the one who has to get up and go do shit because I can’t stand him being that motionless.

  I sit more now, because my stump still fucking hurts after a day in the prosthetic. It’ll hurt tonight. I pull up at the sight of the tourist areas and head back to the Jeep.

  Trevor beat me home. I’m tired, so I’m gonna do him the favor of assuming he tried to hang up his coat and it slid back onto the hall floor. I pick it up, and a scarf slides out of the sleeve, soft knit, bright yellow. I’ve never seen it before.

  I have to unclench my fingers when I realize I’m trying to choke the life out of the fibers, squeezing so hard whatever poor goat or sheep gave the wool can feel it. I stuff it back in Trevor’s coat sleeve before I shred the thing.

  I don’t feel like cooking, don’t feel like doing much of anything but numbing out in front of the Bruins game, but they don’t play the Sabres until seven. Trevor clomps down the stairs, probably in search of food. He’s in the sweats and T-shirt he’s been wearing for our workouts, which is going to be able to walk itself down to the cellar on its own if he doesn’t wash it soon.

  He’s almost smiling as he lands in the hall, but it disappears as he looks at me. “Uh, hi?”

  “How was your date?”

  “Okay.” His blush tells me everything I don’t want to know. Then he lets out a rush of words. “I know it’s getting late, but it’s no later than during the week when we did it, and I swear I didn’t touch anything in your room. I was just waiting.”

  His words don’t connect with anything in my head for a moment. Like the cold chapped my ears. I can see his lips move, but he’s not making sense. Waiting for what?

  “Is something wrong with my coat?”

  “Yes, it belongs on the hook so I don’t trip on the way into my own house.” I hang it more securely.

  “Sorry. I did a load of towels.”

  “Did they make it into the dryer?”

  He nods.

  “And back upstairs?”

  Another nod.

  “Folded?”

  His face scrunches. “I can’t seem to get them to fit like you do.”

  What is so hard for a science geek to figure out about thirds?

  “So can we?” Trevor persists.

  The guy in the bar had been a hell of a fuck. I was tired. My stump felt chapped and raw. So no way should my balls and dick have read anything into Trevor’s eager excitement.

  But he’s not talking about sex. “You want to train?” I need to make sure we’re talking about the same thing.

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

  After an hour helping him with weights, I’m even more drained. It’s a mark of how much I’m letting slide when I order pizza for dinner. Worse when I put it and two plates on the coffee table instead of us eating in the kitchen. The game won’t even be on for another thirty minutes. Trevor raises his brows under his shaggy bangs.

  “Shut up.”

  He pinches his lips together and scoops up a slice, holding the plate close to his chin.

  He slows down on his fourth piece, putting the plate back on the table while the pregame talking heads do their thing, trying to spark interest in a desperation call-up from Providence. Trevor reaches greasy fingers toward his sweats, and I throw a napkin at him.

  I expect him to get out his phone or his laptop since his backpack is at his feet, but instead he says, “LeBeau. That’s the new…” he fishes for a second, “…Left Wing, but he shoots right.”

  “Ye
ah.” I shoot a look to my left. Trevor’s never demonstrated much interest in hockey.

  He fiddles with his phone for a minute then leans forward to grab his plate with a groan. I ignore the way it vibrates in my nuts. The last time he made a sound like that he was bare-assed over my lap.

  “I swear I won’t be able to move my arms tomorrow. And I know, I asked for it.”

  He has to be doing this on purpose, but he’s not blushing, none of those guilty tells. I bite the side of my tongue. I’d introduced him to the chin-up bar tonight, setting it up in my closet doorframe.

  He puts the plate down again and rubs his arms. “How many chin-ups can you do?”

  “More than five.”

  Trevor managed four and a half, pleading with me to let him off after three.

  The puck drops.

  Trevor is usually holed up doing schoolwork in his room—or more likely jerking off. But he pays attention, and at the first line change he asks, “Is that LeBeau?”

  “Number forty-one.”

  I wait for more questions, but that’s it. He watches the game, phone facedown on the table. His focus is a solid presence next to me, but it’s not an intrusion. He’s not being bratty, not pushing, just attentively there. I could like this—a thought dangerous enough to make the cheese congeal in my stomach.

  At the end of the first period, the Bruins are up one nothing after Le Beau assists on a short-handed goal. Trevor scoops up the dishes and the pizza box and carries it out to the kitchen. I guess he should get laid more often. Resentment sours the back of my throat.

  When he comes back, he swings his feet up onto the sofa so they inch toward my thigh. We both look at the remaining space between us.

  “They cold?”

  He nods.

  “Go ahead.” I say it like I don’t care, but it’s a touch I can give myself permission for. Like guiding him through a chin-up or steadying him through crunches, it’s safe—at least on the surface.