I knew it'd be useless, maybe even counterproductive, but my head was still spinning. I cleared my throat and said, "So, if I were to ask you who that was back at the restaurant…?"
He looked down and away, the muscle in his jaw working again. I wished I knew him better so I could say whether that heartbreaking look was anger, fear, or sadness.
On the one hand, I was desperate to know the whole story. On the other, if I'd wanted him to stay last time, it was nothing compared to how I felt right then. Whoever that older man was, he'd brought a friend this time, and the encounter hadn't been exactly amiable. Brady didn't seem scared, but he was screwed up enough that I wasn't sure I'd know the difference.
"Okay. Later." I leaned forward to kiss him again.
He kissed me back, tilting into it and resting his free hand on my thigh. It was brief, and when he drew back, his eyes were narrowed, his head cocked.
I smiled. "You'll disappear." I knew his crooked smile for an admission of guilt. "One question at a time." One more kiss, then I stood to head to the bathroom. But I paused to look at him again.
He was finishing another long drink. He set the bottle on the coffee table, barely an inch still sloshing at the bottom, and asked, "What?"
"I need to piss," I said.
"I ain't stoppin' you," he drawled with over-the-top Southernness.
I eyed his dirty clothes. "I'm wondering if you'll be here when I come back."
He stared up at me for a long, silent moment. Then he licked his lips and said, "Well, there's one way to be sure."
"What's that?"
"Better get those handcuffs, huh?"
I laughed. Unbelievable how his mind worked. He offered his wrists and looked up at me expectantly. A rush of blood stopped me laughing. "You're not serious."
"As a heart attack."
Before I knew it, I was standing over him, leaning down and pinning him to the couch cushions. He turned his face up, and his mouth found mine. A little bit desperate again, but no more than I was. I wanted to eat him alive, holding his face up like that, licking at the back of his teeth, tasting him.
When we stopped, we were both smiling. He gave a little laugh and said, "I trust you, Et. It's me I'm not real sure about."
"You hardly know me."
"I know enough. Sounds like you do too."
"Just enough to think you'll disappear."
"I panic. It's what I do." His smile was almost sheepish.
I brushed his bottom lip—God, it was so sweet—with my thumb. It seemed like a serious conversation, even more serious than the one we'd just had, but I wanted to laugh. "And now?"
"Won't matter if you chain me to the fucking radiator, will it?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Took me forever to piss, seeing as I had to wait for my dick to settle down. But it was more than worth it when I came back to him. Just sitting there, his tattooed right arm raised over his head to accommodate the chain trailing from the defunct steam radiator behind the couch to the glittering cuff at his wrist. The rest of him draped lazily over half the couch, his left hand resting on his bare stomach, wide shoulders relaxed and moving faintly with his breath. He was sunk deep into the cushions with his head reclining against his bound arm, his legs spread wide, perfectly at ease. The outline of a full-on erection between his legs was startling by contrast.
Like it had turned him on, waiting for me.
He knocked me breathless, but I somehow managed an appreciative, "Goddamn, Brady."
"Looks natural, huh?"
"That's one way to put it."
"How long does it take to piss, anyhow? I'm dying out here." He squirmed, lifting his ass and arching his back a little.
"Technical difficulties." My cock, which had returned to attention the second I'd seen him, experienced yet another surge. I saw spots. "Looks like waiting suits you, though."
He licked his lips, still grinning.
I took a few steps nearer but restrained myself—somehow. Even looking at him was so unreal, something perverse in me wanted to drag it out. "I think you like it, even."
"Love it. How about you?"
"Thinking of throwing away the key."
He leaned his cheek against his arm again and adjusted his swollen cock with his free hand. He left his hand where it was, rubbed at his cock through his jeans, and squirmed some more. "Mmm, c'mere."
Jesus. A few more steps before I could stop myself. I reached into my back pocket and produced the key.
"And put that shit away."
"Okay, but…" I let it trail off, leaving the key on the coffee table as I knelt on the couch beside him. When he sat up, I leaned forward and kissed him, bracing myself with one hand on the back of the couch, wrapped around his cuffed wrist. I made it quick—I could hardly breathe, so it wasn't a conscious choice—and when I pulled away, he bit down gently on my bottom lip. I gasped but managed to finish the sentence. "Pretty sure the guy with the key gets to make the demands."
His breath went ragged; he gripped the arm of the couch, white-knuckled. He leaned up and forward but couldn't conveniently reach me when I settled back. "Guess I need some training." He smirked. "You up to it?"
In spite of my dick's distracting efforts to bust out of my pants, I did wonder how wise this was, considering his royal fucked-upness. I had a quicksilver flash of conscience that made me question whether I really wanted to go down this road with him, to take responsibility for whatever came next.
He worried me when he was intense. But he obviously wanted to be distracted now, and God, when he grinned like that…
I finished the train of thought out loud. "You don't scare me, boy." I kissed him again, one hand still on his, the other flat against my own thigh. This time I pressed closer, pushing him back into the cushion. He wriggled beside me, driving his thigh into my knees, edging himself nearer with his free arm. His laughter ended with a moan into my mouth as he turned his head to get a better angle. A few seconds, mouths attached as if permanently, and I felt his hand on my thigh, moving up. It nearly reached my cock before I realized what was happening.
I grabbed for his wrist and held it away, pulled back, and raised my eyebrows.
He licked his lips.
My pulse pounded between my legs, my breath leaving me in a rush. But I smiled and shook my head.
He chuckled, low and evil, and arched his back again.
If it was already this difficult, how the hell would I keep it up? My brain was useless; all it could come up with was to make him suffer more than I did. I stood, just out of reach, and pulled off my shirt.
His gaze ran up and down me. I dropped my shirt on the couch, and he reached for his own button.
I stepped up so I was standing between his knees and caught his wrist. "Behave yourself. Hate to leave you waiting till I can find another pair of cuffs."
He closed his eyes and relaxed, pulling on the cuffs so they clinked against the radiator. His grin lit up the room. "Ah, that's—"
I placed two fingers over his lips. "I got this. Just—promise me you'll say if it starts to hurt your arm, okay?"
"Promise." He kissed my fingers as I pulled them away. I pushed the coffee table back so I could get to my knees in front of him, then popped his fly and unzipped him.
No underwear. Should've expected it, seeing as he'd just gotten out of the shower, and it wasn't like he could've hidden them, low and tight as those pants were. My pulse quickened—I felt it all over but especially in my dick. The blotches reappeared behind my eyes as I pulled down his pants, but my vision cleared in time to see him settling back down. His eyes fixed on mine, legs wide, cock standing thick and naked and perfect. One arm still stretched over his head, turning his whole posture into something hot and languid, like a beautiful, bored man posing for a class of uninterested art students.
Chained to my fucking radiator. The wonderful absurdity of it almost made me laugh.
I moved as close as possible, knees against the front of the couch, his on
either side of me. I pushed them farther apart, as far as they'd go, until he was wide open.
His free hand clutched the armrest, knuckles pale.
I put my hands on his hips, sank my fingertips into the soft, warm feeling of freshly scrubbed skin. No, there was no doubt: no matter what kind of icy supernatural something-or-other ran through his veins, Brady was perfectly, beautifully human. Better than human. I held him there for a long moment, gaze locked with his, making it clear that I wanted him. And that I wanted him right where I had him.
His chest rose and fell once quickly, then paused. His mouth opened.
I smiled, still holding him, and lowered my head. I tossed my hair out of my face so he could get a good look and started licking. First his groin, up high at the inside of his thigh, until I came close to his sac, then I switched to the other side. Up and around, and this time I ran my tongue over his balls, slow and very, very wet. His stomach tightened, and I could feel it in my palms, in my fingers. A stolen glance showed him biting his lip, panting. Watching.
I grinned and did it all over again. Then I went down, my face practically buried in the cushion, stopping just before my tongue reached his ass. He made a faint sound, like swallowing a groan. I wondered if I was meant to keep him quiet as well as still but was enjoying the licking too much to bother. Back up again, yet again, one more time. His legs quivered.
I slid both hands downward, paused at his thighs, and pushed myself up. Another glance—he was torn between smiling and screaming.
Perfect.
I went down again, this time licking his balls more thoroughly until they were good and wet and then slipping up to the base of his cock. His thighs went taut; the cuff clinked against the radiator. I kept moving, up and up, occasionally pulling my tongue back in to taste and rewet, until it finally reached that slit beneath the head. I lingered there, flattened my tongue against him, and wrapped one hand around his cock to hold it steady.
It was dripping, but he held still, swallowing whatever noise wanted to escape. I cleaned him off with long, slow licks. I closed my eyes, remembering the last time, how quiet he'd been, that little "ah" sound he made, what this taste—different tonight, with his sweat washed away, but still sweet—meant. I drew my tongue back in, pressed both lips against him, and opened my mouth a little, like I meant to take him.
My own cock begged for attention, hot in my jeans. I leaned forward and trapped it against the couch.
Maybe he knew; maybe he couldn't take it anymore. He shifted his hips and scooted forward.
I stopped, pulled away, and looked up at him.
He grinned, poking his tongue between his teeth.
Cheeky bastard. I had to readjust a few things, but I sat back on my heels, grinning right back.
He made an impatient growl low in his throat.
I shook my head and rose, eyes sweeping over him, top to bottom and back again. His attention stayed fixed on what was right in front of him; my package was level with his eyes, though he leaned back. Possibilities fluttered through my mind.
I unzipped my jeans and pushed them down around my hips, letting him get a good look at my hard cock, held against my thigh by short black boxer-briefs.
His eyes went wider, and his stomach tightened, like he wanted to sit up.
Since he didn't, I pushed my pants down an inch farther, revealing the pink head, fat against my bare leg. I couldn't see, but I could feel that it was slick.
He sat up, pulling forward and clattering cuffs, lips parted as if to kiss it. The chain wouldn't let him near enough. His free hand gripped the couch cushion again.
The things I wanted to do to him defied description, defied me. I laughed and said, "Ouch."
He laughed too and licked his lips. His mouth opened, this time looking as though he'd speak, but he bit his lip instead. Looked up once more through his thick black eyelashes.
The hell with his name, the hell with his past, with everything. I didn't care who he was, only that he was perfect.
It took me a second to realize he was waiting for me and then another second to realize what for. "Oh. Sorry." I would've flushed if I'd had the blood to spare. Stupid, I wasn't supposed to apologize for—Dammit. "I mean, you need to say something?"
He nodded, still chewing on his bottom lip.
"Go ahead."
"I fucking need it."
Visions of the other night, of his lips around me, of fucking his throat, nearly caused me to black out. "Need what?"
"That amazing cock." A heavy breath, and his mouth remained slack. "Goddamn, I would ride that so hard."
Whoa.
I mean, just—
Whoa.
He licked his lips yet again. "At least a taste. Please. I'm fucking begging you."
I tried to stop myself, but I took a step forward, drawn to those lips, that sweet, warm place inside him…
He leaned forward again, and this time I was near enough. He stopped, his lips an inch away, his breath warm against my skin. He looked up. Waiting.
I knew I was supposed to keep up the act, but I couldn't help brushing his ear, his cheek, his lips with my fingers.
He took this for approval and leaned in the last little bit, mouthing my shaft through my boxer-briefs. Kissing me, then moving down half an inch, kissing again, down, kissing, licking, opening his mouth, down, hot breath, hot tongue, down, sucking, down, wet, down, face against the gaping zipper.
I held still, fascinated, my heartbeat loud in my ears, cock thrilling, body practically vibrating with anticipation. Desperate to have him, desperate to give myself to him. And then he came to the hem of my shorts, sighed wetly, giving me another hit of bliss.
His lips touched the hot, naked dickhead, feather light.
I ran my fingers through his damp hair and exhaled, head falling backward, looking up at the ceiling and seeing nothing but stars.
A slick sensation, warm and clever—him licking me off. The feeling became a wash of heat and black ecstasy, him teasing for long seconds and then finally daring to open his mouth against me, like he'd take in what little he could reach.
I told myself to stop him. Don't disappoint. The game's not over.
His head turned at an awkward angle, and he pulled hard against the cuffs so his arm strained visibly. His lips around the very tip of me, sucking. I sighed, the spiraling thrill almost too much—
His free hand lodged itself in the waistband of my shorts, tugging down.
It snapped me out of it, if only just. Wrong, all wrong. This wasn't about me—it was about him. Making Brady feel. That was what I wanted.
I stepped backward, out of his reach. My cock ached for him, dripping, barely restrained. My shorts were soaked at the hem, and not from me. His mouth. So hot for someone so cold.
His lips were still parted. His eyelashes fluttered, and his hand went back to the couch. And then he grinned.
I put two fingers under his chin and lifted his face. But no matter what he tried, he couldn't get close enough to put his gorgeous mouth on me again. I swallowed hard but found it easy to return the grin. "Oh, Brady." I tried to pull a disappointed face.
He laughed soundlessly, leaning back so his chained wrist was directly over his head again. His free hand flattened against his own thigh, but he didn't dare to move. His smirk was a challenge.
Voice a lot lower and rougher than usual, I said, "You going to behave?"
He chuckled, hot, also rough. "Mmm-hmm. Promise, this time."
"You sure about that?"
"Anything you say, sweetheart."
"I don't know if I believe you."
"You're pretty good at being a cruel fuck, you know that?" The grin, the laughter, the arching of his back. He knew goddamn well it was killing me, but he sure seemed to appreciate the effort.
I stood, head spinning, blood on fire. God help me, I was laughing too. "Turn around. On your knees."
He hopped right to it, clanking and rattling until his elbows were planted on top of the
couch, his back to me, his knees buried in the cushions and his ass on his feet.
I kicked off my pants but kept the shorts, with some minor adjustments. I grabbed his hips and lifted him so he was up on his knees, then guided his ass nearer to me. He spread his knees, but I tapped at the insides of his thighs, moving them farther and farther apart until he was wide open before me, still leaning forward, ass out and up.
I stood back to admire him, rubbing my cock again. Far more than the head stuck out of my shorts by then. He arched his back and looked over his shoulder, then grinned and pulled against the cuffs, rattling them with impatience. But he stayed exactly as I had placed him otherwise.
I laid a finger at the nape of his neck, felt the fine hairs there, the ridge of his backbone, the softness of his skin. Then down, following his spine, down and down, into the small of his back.
His ass went up. His legs quivered. His back arched harder.
I stepped nearer, cupping one hard, round ass cheek with the palm of my hand, and put my lips against his ear. My dick raged, so close to his eager backside; I pressed it into him briefly. He sighed and threw his head back.
That, right there, was hotter than anything else. Just him, happy, feeling it, lost in it. The rush it gave me was almost overwhelming. I whispered, "You are beautiful."
He started to rub against me, but I dropped to my knees again, this time burying my face in his backside and licking his balls, then up, up, and straight to his asshole. His legs, already wide apart, tried to move farther. I circled his hole with my tongue, hands all over his legs, his ass, anything I could reach. Again and again, around and around, him bucking and growling, tasting like sex and soap, me pressing up and in harder and harder. I cupped his balls, stroked them, burying my cock in the front of the couch again. Wet, licking, pressing, rubbing, harder, faster. He shuddered; he whimpered; he begged without words.
I reached between his legs, took his dick in hand, and started pumping it slow and tight, as much as the angle would allow. I pushed the tip of my tongue into him, moving it back and forth.
His unchained hand fumbled—I only noticed after the fact that he'd grabbed my discarded shirt—and two seconds later he arched harder than ever, pressing down into me. I pushed my tongue up, kept jerking him slow, bringing it out little by little.
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