“Should I apologize?” I stare him down, daring him almost. “I don’t think that was what I had in mind when I said whatever it was I said.”
Vincent shakes his head again, a little smile coming and going across his face. “For what? Saving my life? Making me see I was trying so hard to deny who and what I was that it would get me killed eventually? That maybe I was even trying to get myself killed, rather than face myself? Believe me, I’m better off and happier now than I was then.” He gives a little snort of laughter, but there’s no bitterness in it. “Maybe a pauper in comparison, but richer in every other way.” He raises his beer toward me. “I should thank you, but instead I’ll just say, cheers.”
On automatic pilot, I clink my bottle against his and then take a swallow of beer. Vincent slumps back into the corner of the couch and sighs, as if relieved for some reason. I can’t take my eyes off him, mired down by the crazy stew of thoughts and emotions bubbling inside. He takes a pull of his beer, looking at me out of the corner of his eye, then leans forward and puts the bottle on the coffee table.
Holding my gaze again, he slides along the cushions until the side of his thigh presses against mine. One arm is up on the back of the couch and his other hand comes to rest on my hip. This close I can see how his lashes curl up tight, almost absurdly so, framing those gleaming, half–amused, half–serious eyes. His lips do that wry, twisting thing, but with a smile, so I can’t tell which of us he’s laughing at.
“You set me free, man.” His hand slides up under my shirt, his fingers tracing the ridges of my stomach. “Free, to do this.”
His lips touch mine, just resting on my mouth, warm and firm, for a moment before he pulls back and smiles again. When he leans back in I stay where I am, letting him take the lead, content to let him do whatever he wants. He said he should thank me, but for some reason I feel as though I owe him this moment, owe him my compliance.
Vincent kisses me again, a little firmer now, an unhurried movement of his lips on mine, exploratory and somehow arousing at the same time. My lower lip is pulled into his mouth and his tongue sweeps, slow and sweet across it. Then he releases it and deepens the kiss, so our tongues tangle together and I’m inhaling his breath each time he exhales. His fingers brush my nipple, and it’s like being touched with a live wire, as my entire body floods with a shock of need. I only just hang on to my beer bottle, and blindly reach to put it down on the side table.
He kisses me as if kissing is everything there is, not foreplay but a separate, discrete act complete unto itself, and my body reacts in a crazy way. I feel myself getting both lethargic and aroused at the same time, relaxing back against the cushions, my hands and arms lax at my sides, my legs stretching out in front of me, but my nipples tightening, as my skin becomes super–sensitive and my cock hardens. His fingers are just resting on my belly, not moving, but the muscles under them jump, as if affected just by the contact.
When he finally slides his lips from mine, I can hardly breathe. I’ve never been seduced before, but have a funny feeling this is what it means to be. He kisses a line along my jaw, then down to my neck. I lean my head back against the couch, shivering as he licks and nips and sucks, finding spots I never knew would like being touched but now know make my sanity slip a little when they are. His tongue curls against the hollow at the base of my throat, and I make a sound I don’t think I’ve ever made before–something between a groan and a sigh.
Reversing course, he licks beneath my jaw before getting back to my mouth, and I open for him before he even settles his lips on mine properly. A harder kiss this time, not seducing anymore, but insistent, taking arousal to the next step, making promises of things to come.
Both his hands are under my shirt, pushing at it, and I lean forward so he can pull it up. We break the kiss just long enough for Vincent to get the shirt off over my head, then he’s kissing me again, his hands on my chest, easing me back into the corner of the couch. Soon I have one leg stretched out on the cushions, the other foot still on the floor, and Vincent crouched between my spread thighs, leaning over me. He’s not rushing, his kisses deep but still slow. Urgency rises in me, and I shove my hands under his shirt in turn, digging my fingers into his muscles, trying to pull him closer. He’s braced his hands on the arm of the sofa, and I can’t budge him. Lifting his head, he smiles, but his eyes have that heavy–lidded look I recognize.
“Take your time,” he says, then sings in a deep, mellow voice, “Take your time, take your time, take your time. No need to hurry.“
I want to ask him what song that is, but while he was singing he’d shifted down, so the last note comes out right against my left nipple. And now he’s sucking and nibbling at it, and I can’t think about anything else but his mouth on my body.
Each nipple gets his undivided attention. Then he licks, with long, slow swipes, over my entire stomach, until I think one more touch will make me spontaneously combust. Just when I believe he’ll finally move south, give me some relief, he slides his entire torso against mine, until our faces are aligned.
“Want to take this upstairs, Sarg, or should I go on, and risk both of us falling off the sofa?”
If I thought I had the strength I’d throw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and take him up to the bedroom myself, but all I can manage is to growl, “Upstairs.”
Vincent nods, but doesn’t move, hesitating for a moment. Then he seems to come to a decision, his gaze searching mine as he says, “I want you…”
I shiver. I know what he’s saying, asking. Most men assume I’m a top, probably because of my demeanor, and I usually end up being just that. But I have no problem with the thought of Vincent topping me. In fact, just imagining it makes another jolt of heat fire out through my veins.
“You know I won’t say no.” How could he not know that, when I’m already putty in his hands? “I told you that earlier. Consensual, remember?”
His smile makes my heart stutter. “Just making sure.”
Then he levers himself upright and off the couch, and holds out his hand to give me a boost. I take his hand and he tugs.
Why does it feel like he’s pulling me into something, rather than just up?
Chapter Seven
Kyle
Even upstairs, Vincent is determined to take his time–take it easy, as he sang to me downstairs. It forces me to squash my habitual impatience, just let things flow at the pace he wants to go. It’s new for me, but everything about this encounter is, and I realize I like it, the giving up of control to someone else.
Someone I’m learning to trust, who’s trusted me when maybe he shouldn’t have.
And I like the change of pace too, once I accept he won’t be rushed. He’s making love on island time. The random thought makes me smile, but in the next breath I groan, because he’s got my shorts off, finally, and is working his tongue in a swirling, lazy pattern up my inner thigh and I’m already imagining where it’ll end up.
It’s torture, pure and simple, and I let myself sink into it, stop fighting. The sunlight has disappeared, and the lamp beside the bed casts a yellow glow around the room. Rain starts to come down outside. Thunder rolls in the distance, and Vincent lifts his head for a moment, closing his eyes, as though listening to the beat of the drops on the window. Then he smiles a little and his eyelids rise so he’s looking at me. My heart, already racing, contracts on a staggered beat, and although I think I should smile back at him, I can’t.
“Pitta–patta,” he says, that little smile tipping the edge of his mouth. “I’ll play that song for you sometime, so you know why the rain makes this afternoon perfect.”
“There’s a song about the rain?” I’m even talking slower, the hard edges smoothed off my voice, my vocal chords apparently lulled by the intimacy of having him in my bed, touching me in ways I don’t think I’ve ever been touched before.
His smile widens, and he dips his head to lick the crease at the top of my thigh, making my breath stop for an instant and
then shudder from my lungs. “There’s a song about everything. Especially in Jamaica.”
I want to ask what song they could possibly have about what we’re doing, but he’s easing my legs farther apart, and I don’t really care what anyone is singing anywhere. He skirts my cock, licking a warm trail down the crease of one thigh, lightly brushing my balls as he crosses to the crease on the other side, and then licking up to the ticklish spot by my hipbone. When I buck, trying to evade his lips, he laughs softly against my skin.
“You’re a tease.” It was supposed to come out in an accusatory tone, but despite the arousal sparking through every nerve ending, I can’t seem to do much more than mumble, the breathlessness of my voice negating the effect completely.
The only reply I get is another slow lick back down, although I think I hear him chuckle softly. With firm, strong hands, he spreads my thighs even wider and my mind seizes at the first hot, moist press of his tongue on my balls. He rolls and licks, takes first one side and then the other into his mouth with just enough suction to bring me to the edge of pain while ratcheting my pleasure higher. By the time he moves lower, twisting his tongue on the skin below my sac, heading toward my pucker, I’m rolling my hips up, anticipation and need making me feel as if my head is about to fly off.
He rims me, still going slow, then narrows the circle until he’s flicking the tip of his tongue against my hole. When he pushes in, a sensation like relief makes me fist my hands in the sheet and bite the inside of my cheek so as not to release the groan building in my chest. Vincent holds me behind the knees and pushes my legs up, curling my body in on itself to give himself more room. I force my eyes open a crack, and the sound I tried to hold back breaks from my throat when I see him looking back at me while he unhurriedly tongue–fucks my ass.
I can’t look away, trapped by the heat and desire in his eyes, his expression turning my arousal into an electric, all–consuming yearning that cracks, like the lightning outside, through my entire system. My cock pulses, a dribble of pre–cum falling on my stomach and running down into my navel. He pushes into me again, his tongue flexing and curling for a few long, pleasure drenched seconds, then it retreats, leaving my body feeling empty and needy.
Releasing my legs, Vincent rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, and reaches for a condom. His skin gleams, the sheen of perspiration catching the light and making the dips and plains of his muscles stand out in sharp relief. I watch him slide the latex down over his cock, admiring and wanting that long, slightly curved length, wondering how long I’ll last with him fucking me. Hoping he won’t continue the slow torment he’s been inflicting on me.
Without looking at me, he gets up and walks toward the en suite bathroom, leaving me wondering what the hell…
He reappears with a bath towel in his hand, and I realize what he’s doing. A spark of annoyance has me going up on my elbows and giving him a hard look.
“Do we need that?”
“You already had to wash your quilt.” One shoulder rises in a shrug. “No need to mess up your sheets too.”
He’s still trying to hide–doesn’t want me looking at his face when we have sex–and it bugs me. I want to watch him, watch what he’s doing to me, hopefully watch him lose control, if I can keep myself under control enough to do it. I’m tempted to try to force him, maybe say it’s face–to–face or nothing, but I know I don’t have the right to do that. And I know I don’t want to jeopardize what we have going.
So I just watch him as he leans across me and spreads out the towel, wanting so bad to ask him what it is about me that won’t let him trust me, what I need to do to make that happen. Yet still wanting him, willing to let this go, even as it leaves me inexplicably angry.
“You’re glaring at me.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, as he runs his hand over the towel, smoothing it out. “If it wasn’t for this–” I’m not prepared for him to suddenly grab my dick and pump his fist along its still–hard length a couple of times, making my toes curl. “I’d be frightened.”
Screw it. If he wants to play, I’m game. He’s no match for my grappling skills and, thank God, he’s surprised enough when I grab him and hip–check him over my body to let go my cock. He lands on his back and I straddle his pelvis, planting my hands beside his head and leaning down close.
“You should be frightened.” I give him my best PORC stare, kind of meaning it, even though I’m joking. Right now I think we should be very afraid of each other. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”
“I have a good idea, Babylon.“ He’s laughing at me. The amusement is there in his eyes, along with something that looks like relief. I realize I didn’t really think this through when he reaches between us and grabs my dick again. “A real good idea.”
What can I do but kiss the smile off his face, and let myself sink back into the slow loving he offers? I want it–am willing to do whatever it takes to have it–even though I suspect I’ll regret the feelings churning to life in me, feelings I’ve steadfastly avoided letting myself experience with anyone, especially a lover.
There’s no resistance left in me by the time he rolls me onto my side and guides my leg up toward my chest. It’s a vulnerable feeling, lying like that, unable to see what he’s doing, in a position that doesn’t allow for an easy escape. I’d have preferred being on my knees, but when his chest aligns with my back, and I feel his breath, hot and rushed, on my shoulder, it’s suddenly all right.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, pushing forward, taking his time, waiting for me to let him in. When I do, he says, “Oh yeah.”
I like how breathless he sounds, the way his accent deepens. I remember wondering about how he’d be in bed, if his walk was an indication of what he’d do, and now I find out. With just the head inside, he rolls his pelvis in a tiny movement, pushing in and, at the same time, sending a shock of pleasure straight to my balls with the way the extra move stretches me farther. Wrapping his arm tighter around my chest, he digs his fingers into my shoulder, finding purchase, and rolls his hips again, giving me another couple of inches.
By the time he pauses, seemingly all in, I’m pushing back against him, wanting more if he has it to give. Releasing my shoulder, he hooks his arm around my up–bent knee, the change of position opening me even more, forcing his cock deeper. He’s leaning on my back, pressing me almost over onto my stomach, his body bunched and quivering.
“Yeah,” he groans again, tightening his hold on me. I’m braced for him to start pumping hard, but he slowly withdraws, then slides back in, hips flowing with that smooth, rolling beat. “Oh yeah. That’s nice.”
Nice? Not the word I’d use as he strokes against my prostate, taking me higher with each leisurely, controlled thrust. Our bodies move against each other, lubricated by perspiration, the sensations of slick flesh and straining muscles expanding my pleasure until I can hardly stand it.
But although Vincent bites my shoulder, then starts talking dirty in my ear, his voice rough and his accent so thick I can barely make out what he’s saying, he doesn’t speed up his movements. Just keeps them long and slow, letting the passion build and build, piling on the heat.
I’m so lost in the experience, I don’t even realize I’m about to come until the orgasm jolts through me, making me shout in shock at the almost painful intensity of it. Vincent holds me in a grip like steel bands, not letting my jerking tremors buck him off and, when I finally relax slightly, he whispers, “Nice, eh?”
A hoarse chuckle forces its way from my throat, and I desperately want to kiss him, but he won’t let me move. “Not too shabby,” I answer, even while still shaking and trembling. “Not too shabby at all.”
He laughs softly and licks the edge of my ear, then moves to my neck, his hand sliding down from my knee, along the inside of my thigh, until it reaches my semi–flaccid cock. The head is so sensitive the brush of his fingers makes the breath hiss between my teeth.
“Easy,” he says, fisting my length. “Just relax. Y
ou’re so tense right now you’re about to snap my hood off.”
“Shit.” It’s little more than a groan, because heat is flooding my groin, and I can’t believe I’m getting hard again so fast. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Make you feel good,” he says, picking back up the slow, sweet rhythm he’d set with his cock, matching it with his hand. “Make you feel real good.”
I wonder if I’ll survive the experience intact, or be left a complete and utter wreck. I know he’s close to coming. I hear it in the way his breathing accelerates, the extra power of his thrusts, but he keeps the pace steady for a few more minutes, then groans.
“Sorry. You feel so good…” He lets go my cock and grabs my leg again for leverage. “I can’t–”
Then he’s fucking me hard, his body twisting and driving his cock deep into me over and over again with short, jerking motions, and I’m fucking loving it–the sensation of him losing control, hearing him groan my name, feeling myself spiral into pleasure again, but this time with him.
It’s only later, when I’m faced with the unusual task of sharing my bed, that fear prickles down my spine, counteracting the pleasure. Vincent’s arm is flung across my stomach, his deep, even breathing provides a backdrop to my chaotic, crazy thoughts, and it feels like an eternity before I can finally will my exhausted body to sleep.
Chapter Eight
Vincent
I wake up, disoriented, wondering where the hell I am. Then, when I remember, I’m left wondering where Kyle is, since the bed beside me is empty and cold and the house is silent. Rolling onto my back, I blink at the clock on the bedside table. Seven–ten. Still fairly early, but later than I usually sleep. Mind you, I don’t usually have the kind of workout I had yesterday. My entire body aches, but I can’t help smiling anyway. That crazy sex is worth the pain in my thighs and shoulders, the ache in my ass.
Brought to His Knees-Tough Guys Laid Low By Love Page 22