Chapter 39 Home
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Gemiah
We’ve already popped one ass-cherry on the lot, so we decide to return to the luxury of the trailer with its king-sized bed.
Josha insists on taking a shower— by himself—and yeah, I know what he’s doing, but it leaves me alone exactly long enough to start losing my shit.
After all my bravado about fulfilling his fantasies, I can’t help but spiral under the pressure of living up to my own hype.
Not wanting to end up with a chunk taken out of my ass, I toss Zombie outside with a brief warning to stay away from mountain lions. The half-feral little beast is more than happy to disappear into the night, gleeful at the unexpected liberation.
After stripping out of my boots and jeans, I pace the bedroom in my boxer briefs and still-unbuttoned shirt. My confused dick throbs against my thigh, warring with my nerves.
Should I try to dig up some candles and set some kind of mood?
Are we going for romantic, or rough and dirty?
I’m not sure I can pull off the former, and I’ve had my fingers up his ass enough times to know I probably won’t hurt him if I take him hard, but fuck if I’m not dying to be the perfect guy with the perfect cock tonight.
And then he appears in the doorway in nothing but the sluttiest little white towel known to man and steals that title right out of my hands.
“Where—did you get that?” I choke as saliva floods my mouth. I know he has normal-sized bath towels, so why is he wearing a fucking scrap so thin it shows off his entire dick outline and barely covers his ass when he turns to shut the door?
Not that I’m complaining, exactly, but Jesus fuck.
He takes one look at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement.
“You’re freaking out,” he observes. Observantly.
“No,” I lie.
“Yes you are.” He stalks toward me, and the glow of the bedside lamp paints every dip and hollow of his shifting muscles in sinful shadow and glimmering gold. Water drips from his hair to run along his jaw and pool in the hollow of his clavicle, begging me to catch it on my tongue.
I want to lick him everywhere like a fucking popsicle.
Which…might not be a bad place to start.
I let him close the distance and pretend it’s not because my feet are rooted to the floor. When he dips his head to claim a kiss, I stop him with my hands on the knot where his trail of russet hair disappears beneath the towel.
“This,” I tell him, my voice so husky I barely recognize it, “was a very bad idea.”
His lips part as his pupils flare, and his Adam’s apple bobs on a rough swallow.
Hello, confidence.
“Get on the bed, Rocket. On your stomach with a pillow under your hips.”
“Should I…” His fingers brush mine at his waist. “…take this off?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”
He flexes his hands, knuckles grazing my now-much-less-confused cock, and lowers his mouth to hover over mine.
“Whatever you want, Star-Lord.” And then he saunters to the bed with an exaggerated sway of his hips.
It’s a miracle he doesn’t lose the fucking towel.
It does start to slip when he climbs onto the bed, but he holds it in place until he’s situated as instructed, head pillowed on his crossed arms, bottle of lube waiting at his side. “Like this?”
In answer, I peel myself out of my remaining clothes with all the seduction I can muster and soak up the shiver that coasts over his damp skin.
He tracks me with eyes like turned earth after a rain as I circle to the foot of the bed, his breath feathering out in a soft sigh when the mattress dips under my weight.
I run a hand up the inside of his thigh, admiring the way his balls draw up tight in anticipation where they peek from the shadow of the skimpy towel.
Leaning down, I press my face into the fabric and nuzzle into his crack.
When I exhale directly over his hole, heating the damp cloth, he arches obscenely with a muffled groan.
I do it again, then lave the flat of my tongue over the spot and let my saliva add to the moisture.
“Should I pretend to be sleeping?” he asks, wearing a look that sacrifices a lot of its sass when he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth.
Okay, so maybe I’ve developed a bit of kink for waking Josha up with creative uses of my mouth.
“Not this time. I want to hear all those pretty, filthy sounds you make when I fuck you with my tongue.”
He rewards me with a strangled whimper, and I sit back on my heels, studying the view.
The towel, though undeniably hot, is in the fucking way.
As much as I’d love to pay him back for the fucking wetsuit and tease him to the point of insanity, the chances of my self-restraint outlasting his are notably nonexistent.
The last time he reduced me to a writhing, pleading mess with nothing but his wickedly talented fingers—the man is unfairly good with his hands—I asked him how he could be so damnably patient.
He gave me one of those are-you-fucking-kidding-me looks and replied:
“Years, Gem. I waited fucking years to have you like this. Now that I do, I’ll take all the time I fucking want to enjoy it.”
I didn’t argue with him, and not just because I was desperate to come.
The amorphous fantasies that kindled to life the night before I went to ENC didn’t qualify as waiting, exactly.
Would he believe me if I told him about the dreams where my eighteen-year-old self had stopped jerking off before I came that night?
Where, instead, I’d crossed the cavern between the two hotel beds and stripped the sheet from the Josha who rolled into the mattress to make that mind-blowing sound?
Would he believe that in the years since, I could count a thousand nights I’d woken sweat-slick and aching, dismantled by the conjured memory of covering that Josha’s body with mine and burying myself inside it?
And now, here he is—spread out before me on white cotton sheets like those very dreams made flesh.
Patience is an impossible assignment.
Fuck the towel.
But the perfect guy with the perfect cock does not skimp on foreplay, so I use my teeth to tease the fabric up while my thumbs trace the curve where his ass swells from his thighs.
His hips lift off the pillow again in a clear command to get the fuck on with it. Who’s impatient now?
I answer by tracing tantalizing circles around his rim with my tongue and slipping my hand behind his balls to grip his shaft. Instead of stroking, I pull it back between his thighs and toy with the tip, tugging lightly on his foreskin.
I am both fascinated by and secretly jealous of the delicate sheath of skin.
I’ve discovered that not only is it an extra erogenous zone, but it feels fucking amazing rubbing over my prostate when he fucks me—and he doesn’t need any more advantages when it comes to turning me the fuck out.
If I thought I’d survive the forced celibacy of the healing period, I’d get myself some hardware to compete.
“Gem,” he protests, and I realize I’ve stopped tonguing his ass to focus on rolling the foreskin lazily over his crown, slicking the inner membrane with precum.
“Can I try something?” I ask, sitting up and reaching for the lube.
“Isn’t that the whole idea?” he snarks, and I pinch his cockhead until he writhes. “Fuck. Yes. Anything.”
I pop the cap on the bottle and drizzle a stream of lube over my shaft, nudging his thighs farther apart with my knees. When I line my tip up with his, he stops fidgeting and buries his face in the pillow with a sharp intake of breath.
Slowly, I drag his foreskin down to cover my crown, then a little further, until my dick jolts at the new sensation.
“Is this okay? Does it hurt?”
He jerks his head in a sharp negative and curls his fingers into the pillow, so I tighten my grip and roll the silky sheath back and forth over our joined cocks. My knuckles graze his sac, and he rocks back onto his elbows and knees with a rough grunt, losing the towel and giving me better access.
“Does it always feel this good when you jerk off?” I ask, unable to stop my hips from thrusting into his cock. “Fuck. How do you not spend all your time hiding out in empty rooms with a box of Kleenex?”
“Everything’s better with you.” He’s trembling with the effort to hold himself still, and his dick is so hard it strains against the angle, threatening to slip from my grip.
I could come like this—the ripples of impending orgasm tickle my spine—but I promised to fuck him, and that’s gonna feel even better, so I slow my strokes and run my other hand up his spine, pressing until his chest hits the mattress again.
Gathering up the lube, I squirt a generous amount directly into his crack, then catch the slippery liquid and rub it over his hole. I keep jerking us together while I prep him, timing my strokes to the thrust and twist and curl of my fingers until he finally breaks.
“Enough. Fuck, Quill, please. God, I need you to fuck me now. Fucking do it. Now. Please.”
I release our dicks and spread his ass cheeks. His slicked hole flutters, gaping obscenely, and I spit on it and use my fingers to shove the extra bit of myself inside him. I want to claim every part of him with every part of me. I’d mark him with my blood if I thought he’d let me.
Inching my knees under his splayed thighs, I notch my eager cock at his entrance and watch in fascination as the thick head stretches the softened ring of muscle. Even with the prep, the pressure is un-fucking-real, and I rock my hips a few times, testing him without ever fully breaching.
“Quill,” he warns, thighs trembling, but I squeeze his ass to hold him still.
“Shh. I’ll take you when I’m fucking ready,” I tell him. The sight of my dick disappearing inch by slow inch into his straining hole is filthy, intoxicating, and even though I’m about two seconds from losing all control, I want to draw it out.