by Edie Danford
“But you want to do this, right?” I kissed my way over to the ball of his shoulder and bit lightly at the formidable muscle. “You requested a knight to rescue you?”
“God, yes, I want to do this.” He laughed. “I want you and not a knight, though. It’s totally crazy how I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He reached down to stroke my hardening dick through my jeans. “About this.”
“Okay, then.” I looked up into his face, my gaze taking in the clarity of his eyes, the moisture on his parted lips, the pink color cresting his cheeks. Open. Sweet. No shyness, no flirtation. Just…Josh. Should’ve scared me maybe, but that floaty feeling had taken over my head and I wanted to keep going on this weightless ride. My hands had been roaming the terrain of his back. The heat of his body had turned the stickiness on my skin liquid again and I smoothed it over ridges and planes and contours.
And then I didn’t have to think or worry because his head dropped and our lips met and we were tasting each other, tangling our tongues, coating each other with our own flavors of goodness—I could feel the bubbles and froth rising in my veins, hot and ready to pour.
I dropped my right hand from his body and fumbled with the buttons of my jeans. Josh was making those awesomely greedy groaning noises into my mouth, attacking my lips and tongue and cheeks and chin with his teeth and sharp little pressings of his lips. His hips were in a slower groove, but felt just as needy, grinding and shoving and seeking.
Buttons taken care of, I shoved down my jeans and briefs, releasing my dick to bounce wetly against my abs. “Let’s do it like this, baby,” I murmured into his mouth. “Wanna feel you so bad.” I reached into his sweats and found his cock, freeing it from the elastic waistband before I let my thumbs do what they’d been wanting to do since I walked through his door—hitch into those sexy-loose sweats and tug.
His big, sticky hands came down to cup my ass and he shoved us together with a grunt. I wanted to watch the meeting and greeting of our getting-happier-by-the-second dicks, but I wanted to kiss him more and so I tipped my head and sighed as his mouth came down exactly where I wanted it. I gripped his awesome ass and held on.
When his teeth got sharper against my lips and the roll of his hips got tighter, I found myself wanting to slow it down. Just a fraction.
“Wait,” I sighed into his mouth. “Let’s not forget the balls.”
“What?” His laughter tasted like maple.
I twisted my torso a bit and reached for the oil on the counter. “It’s very, very tricky,” I said. “But so worth it.”
His laughter was breathless. His hands were roaming over my ass, kneading and exploring. I cupped my right hand and, with my left, drizzled oil into my palm.
I set down the bottle and said, “We gotta cup and shape and mold.” I cupped his balls. They felt heavy and tight. The textures were perfect and I played and tugged with my fingers and then flicked and prodded with my nails.
“Oh Jesus. Nick.” His hands tightened on my ass as his hips jerked.
I ran my thumb over the crest of his cockhead, adding the bead of precome to the mix. “Now you do me,” I whispered. “I know you’ve got good hands.”
We were both so jacked I was afraid we’d end up with the entire bottle all over us, but I managed to get a decent dollop onto his palm and safely push the bottle away from the counter’s edge.
When he cupped my balls and started in with a righteous massage, I went rigid. I’d expected a touch that was tentative or hesitant. But he went after me with gusto.
“You like it hard,” he whispered against my temple.
“Yeah. I do.”
He cradled my sac in his big palm, weighing, considering. Then he curled his fingers around me and did an incredible twist-pull thing, right on the edge of too much.
“Shit,” I breathed.
He pulled back, cradling again.
“It’s good,” I told him, resting my forehead on his shoulder, looking down into the space between us. “Keep doing that.”
While he kept up the rough treatment of my nuts, I kept things gentle above, bringing our shafts together and rubbing lightly. My cockhead was an angry red, poking out of my foreskin, checking out what the hell was going on, ready to go.
I was on the precipice of coming—a feeling I adored, but this precipice felt more amazing than usual. Sharper, sweeter, edgier. I didn’t know what. Not much room to think when unbelievable sensation was filling every cell, vein, membrane, pore, orifice. Maybe it was just Josh—his unexpected mashup of inexperience with confidence, eagerness with hesitation—that pushed me beyond all my usual expectations for getting-off feels.
“So good,” I mumbled, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, wanting to climb on top of him and inside him and underneath him, to somehow, some way, get closer.
“Aw, fuck,” he breathed into my hair. His hand faltered and his shoulders tensed and I knew he was about to go.
“Do it.”
He choked out a breath of laughter. “No choice.”
“Go, baby,” I encouraged, raising my chin so I could press my open mouth to his shoulder’s upper curve.
As my teeth connected with his skin, hot, satiny liquid spewed over my hand and my cock. I held my breath, knowing I was about to follow. The sensation swirling and whooshing through my lower back and balls and dick suddenly seemed to cease—the calm before the first blast of thunder and lightning…and then—boom—it burst into the most gorgeous pleasure storm ever. I closed my eyes, held on tight, and rode it out.
“Fuuuuuck,” he whispered.
“Agreed.” As I released my breath and slowed the motions of my hands and mouth, my mind performed one of those pleasure-stoned journeys, drifting from thoughts of jizz and cooking oil and corn, to ideas about trees and sap and plant life, and then to imaginings about all the beautiful things that rested beneath coverings of skin and bark and husks.
“Mmm,” Josh hummed against my temple. “You feel so good.” His hands slid up my back and came to rest on either side of my neck, pushing my hair out of the way. I looked up at him, not quite fully aware yet. His eyes were closed, his thick lashes shadowing his pink cheeks. I let my eyes drift closed again and when his lips met mine, I sighed into a perfect kiss.
As we both leaned against the counter, content to just stand there and stay connected through the lazy movement of our lips, a flare of surprise shot through my mind, lighting up warning signals. Why was I so comfortable? Why was I only thinking about how good it felt to taste Josh, nibble on his lips, play with his tongue? Why wasn’t I thinking about pulling up my damn pants or answering my phone—which had been vibrating in my pocket for the last few minutes—or leaving?
When the first orgasm of the night was this good, usually I was busy plotting the next one, figuring out the logistics of staying with a guy I didn’t know well enough to completely trust. But right now I didn’t seem capable of plotting or figuring out anything.
“Sticky,” Josh said, pulling back enough to nuzzle his way over to my ear.
His breath tickled. I suppressed a giggle and scrunched my shoulder to my ear. “Hey, man. Are you getting all that sticky shit in my hair?”
“Yeah.” He sounded so pleased. My giggle escaped. He straightened and smiled at me. Looking at him like this—close enough to see every shade of gold, orange and brown in his irises—made me feel kind of dizzy. He rubbed his thumbs over the crests of my cheekbones. “Shower?”
“I guess we better.”
He took a step back and pulled his shorts over his semi-erect dick. He looked down and his smile went lopsided. “Your jazzy shirt got jizzy.”
Sure enough, there were damp spatters across the glittery script. “We missed nailing the Hancock building,” I teased, shaking my head sorrowfully.
He laughed. “We’ll get it later.”
Later. I licked my lips and shifted my gaze toward the stovetop. Evidence of good, messy spatters there too. Hitching my jeans and briefs over my sticky but
t, I looked around at the rest of the living space—the big bed and funky couch and Josh’s laptop on the velvet ottoman and books, books, books. If I let myself get comfortable here, I’d never want to leave.
“Hey,” he said, nudging my chin with his knuckles. “Where’d you go?”
I shrugged, pasted on a smile. “Nowhere.”
“Moody-broody came back,” he said, his gaze traveling over my features.
I snorted. “Moody-broody?”
He nodded. “It’s gonna take a while to figure out all your layers.”
Oh God. “Nothing deep here,” I told him. “What you see is what you get.” I looked down at my shirt and swallowed, feeling like I’d just spewed some prize bullshit.
Obviously there were a few layers I didn’t want to reveal to Josh Pahlke. Or anyone else in my here and now. I glanced up at his too-interested expression. Those sweet brown eyes were convincing me to cough up all kinds of crap I didn’t usually talk about. And, yeah, I could easily talk to him about the past we’d vaguely shared…because I’d grown up and moved on and I’d become a different person, right? So why didn’t I just bring it up?
The next time there was an opportunity, I could mention that I’d grown up in Lake Woods. I could tell him that, in some ways, he’d been a big part of my teen years. But then I’d have to admit that I’d picked him up at that Boston party because I’d recognized him, and I’d wanted the satisfaction of fucking his brains out. Because he’d been my fantasy. Because he kinda-sorta accidentally broke my heart. If I were being totally upfront, I’d have to acknowledge he’d been the ultimate “notch” in my notch post.
Yeah, all of it was complicated crap that would not make for a casual discussion. Crap that might very well end discussions between Josh and me permanently.
So…if I wanted to keep hanging out with him, if I wanted to be friends or anything else with him in the here and now, then I needed to keep the past in the past.
I’d compromise my keep-it-real-with-guys-I-fucked policy a bit, but for a weekend or two with Josh? It might be worth it. He’d get tired of my moody-broodiness soon enough and then I wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not to reveal embarrassing shit that made my palms sweat and my stomach heave whenever I thought about it for more than three seconds at a go.
He pushed a hank of hair away from my face. “It was the ‘later’ comment that changed things, right? The idea that we’d keep hanging out. Or maybe do this another time?”
“Um.” I shuffled back through the last few seconds, trying to pick up the trail of our conversation.
“It’s okay,” he told me, still stroking my hair. “I want there to be a later, but I don’t want you to get freaked out about the idea. I don’t want to cramp your cocky-kid-player style or whatever.” His fingertip lightly traced my ear gauge. He dropped his hand and my skin felt funky without his touch. I rolled my shoulders.
“Cocky-kid-player style?”
He laughed. “Yeah. You know what I mean. You’re hip and I’m square. You go out and fuck freely on a Friday night, and I stay in and make popcorn balls. You cruise parties and I sit in the corner with my friends. That kind of thing. It freaks me out to think I might be too boring and old for you. I mean, I hope I’m not. But I understand if you want to bail and go along your cocky way.”
I took a few breaths and filled my eyes with him. He was all messed up from sex and syrup and my kisses. Hearing him lay out his feelings so honestly and openly, I realized that my attraction to him right here and right now had way more to do with his heart and his sweetness than his ridiculous god-of-Lake-Woods-High legend.
“I don’t want to bail and go on my cocky way,” I told him.
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were judging me for sincerity.
“I mean it,” I told him, trying to speak in a way that wouldn’t make him think I was cocky or broody or what-the-fuck-ever. “I can’t think of anyplace else I’d rather be right now.”
“Really?” His smile was a thing of beauty. It hit me hard. Like stars or gems or fairytale towers.
“Really.” I braced a hand on the counter and took off my boots, my gaze fixed on his. The heat in his eyes was the best kind of compliment. I kicked the boots out of the way and shucked my socks and then my jeans and briefs. I straightened my spine, put my hands on my hips and looked at him, my dick dangling beneath the shirt we’d decorated with syrup and jizz. “Ready for that shower?” I asked.
“Heck, yeah.”
I stepped forward and he took my hand. We both laughed when our skin snicked stickily together. It was a good glue we’d made—almost a shame to wash it off.
Chapter Eight
Josh
“HOW MANY GUYS do you think it took to create this ceiling?” Nick asked, tipping his chin and adjusting the pillow under his head.
I stopped my exercise in tracing his tattoos. There was a queen of hearts on his biceps—the queen was gorgeously gothic and weeping black tears. I liked it, which kind of surprised me. The dragon was growing on me too. The snarling creature seemed…friendlier now. I pressed a kiss on the queen’s tears and flopped onto my back.
The ceiling was truly awesome. Varnished planks going east to west, rough beams going north to south. And all around the edges, amazing carved stonework. “I don’t know,” I said. “Obviously some masons for the structure, carpenters for the beadboard and the beams. Maybe a sculptor for the corners?”
“Sounds about right. So maybe a dozen or so guys altogether… It’s art, right? God. Such a privilege to see it. Makes me think about all the art I walk by every day and can’t see. Or don’t bother to see.”
I looked over at him. His damp hair fanned out on the yellow pillowcase, creating swirls and shapes that reminded me of the fleur-di-lis on the tapestry hanging behind the headboard. His profile reminded me of some of the images I’d been looking at earlier in the evening up in the library. One of the Torveks had been interested in photographic portraits and I’d picked up a volume of late nineteenth-century gentlemen—men who appeared a little bit arrogant, a little bit aloof, but also intelligent and vital—the kind of images you wanted to poke at and trace in the hope you might make it come alive.
My fingers couldn’t resist. Propping myself on my elbow again, I reached up to trace the line of his nose down to his upper lip. He turned his head toward me but kept his gaze on the ceiling. The pinch of his teeth was sharp but surprisingly good as he bit down on the pad of my index finger and held on.
Laughing, I leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. It worked. He released my finger and captured my lips instead. His hand came up to cup the back of my neck and the kiss deepened. Such a rush it was to kiss this guy—pleasure juice speeding through me, turning my skin and muscles into something electric, powerful enough to light up Ellery, Vermont for the rest of the weekend.
The high was even better than my workout high. If they stuck a bunch of electrodes on me, they’d see the same blobs of bright yellow and red all over my brain and my body—the indicators screaming, “This guy is blissed-out!” Especially if they hooked one of the electrodes to my dick.
Another laugh overtook me, and I had to pull back to catch my breath.
“What?” Nick smiled up at me, his fingers combing through the hair over my ears. I wanted to purr I felt so good.
“Just thinking about how happy my dick is right now.”
He laughed. “Happy dick makes a happy man.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s obvious I need to let my dick take the lead more often.” We’d rubbed off together again in the shower. The soap had to happen to scrub off the stickiness and there had been a lot of sticky stuff from a variety of sources.
Nick had been apologetic, feeling guilty about potentially causing rashes or reactions or worse with our popcorn-ball party. But I’d been happy we’d just gone with it without worrying. Nick’s hands were a distraction whether they were sticky or soapy. And in the shower one thing had quickly—
very quickly in my case—led to another.
His hand moved down, stroking my flank and then traveling over my hip to my ass. “So when you were living in Boston… You didn’t go out much?”
“Actually I went out a lot. With friends. People from school or from the ski teams. But I found out a long time ago that hooking up sucked for me.”
His fingertip toyed with the source of my ass crack and I had to exhale slowly to keep from squirming against him. I was hard again. When he’d flopped down on my bed after the shower he’d looked so utterly relaxed. I wanted to give him time before he had to deal with the newbie horndog again.
“And it sucked because of your allergies? Too hard to find someone patient?”
His hair was drying and tiny waves and curls were forming along his hairline. The contrast between the curls and heavy silk of the rest of his hair was fricking adorable. I couldn’t stop playing with the brown-black textures.
“Don’t ever cut your hair,” I told him.
His lips turned up in a crooked smile. “No worries—I’m too damn lazy to cut it. Now answer my questions.”
Sighing, I let my hand travel downward for more tattoo exploring. His dick was getting hard, drawing attention to the area by that wicked crown of thorns.
“Not really because of my allergies, I guess,” I responded after a couple moments. “Although they’re probably a part of it. I’m just not a very…off-the-cuff guy. At least not when it comes to sex and that kind of shit. In high school I had a steady make-out boyfriend—neither one of us was ready for anything serious in terms of sex or a relationship—and we both wanted to keep things uncomplicated. I lived in Lake Woods and it’s one of those fishbowl towns, you know?”
He nodded. His eyes were shadowed but I could feel their intensity and heat as his gaze traveled over my features. He seemed genuinely interested so I kept talking. “My dad was a football coach for Lake Woods College. My mom was one of the deans. People paid attention to what they did on and off the field. My parents were a little pent-up about shit that might reflect badly on the family. When I was eight or nine my dad was involved in a big scandal and my family got a lot of scrutiny from the media.”