Chapter Nineteen #2
Still, you can never be sure when you’ve willingly invited a werewolf with the nose of a bloodhound and hearing of…well, a wolf.
I open the door to a smiling Nicholas. It’s not a surprise. It’s never a surprise. But it still hits me hard every time, that open expression brimming with happiness. It’s annoying.
What has he got to be so happy about anyway? Doesn’t he see the worst of humanity at his job every fucking day? I’m changing my stance. It’s a sociopath I’ve invited into my home. Sam was right to worry about me.
“Are you going to stand there staring at me all night?” Nicholas asks from the door.
“You’re a sociopath,” I declare.
He laughs at my face and nudges past me to enter my house.
I close the door and follow him inside. He looks around, his eyes critically assessing every surface.
Maybe he’s surprised it’s possible to have clean surfaces that are not littered with useless items that even devout tourists would be ashamed to take home.
He turns to me after inspecting my living room. It’s pretty bare, with a single solitary yellow couch draped in a green throw, which goes well with the off-white walls, a large coffee table, a normal-sized television, and a large open cabinet filled with books.
“Won’t you give me a tour?” he asks.
I roll my eyes, but start walking ahead of him, showing him the rest of the rooms. My small office, an empty room I never got around to decorating, my bedroom with a large bed, blue bedspread, and a large blue closet, and the guest bedroom that’s done in salmon.
When I look back at Nicholas, once we’re in the kitchen, his mouth is hanging open. “I wasn’t expecting that,” he says after he has composed himself.
“I like colors, sue me.”
“You have accent walls in every room and a pink room,” he sounds so surprised, I want to flip him off.
But I hold off. “It’s salmon. Sam chose most of it anyway, including the guest room, since he’s the only one who stays there.
I know it sounds like an unnecessary distinction, but if you knew him, you’d know it’s so not,” I smile, thinking about the time I made that mistake and had to attend a two-hour lecture on color theory.
“Oh yeah, your friend from college,” he says, sounding weird. Suspicious?
No, he can’t be suspicious out of the blue. Maybe he has a hard time believing I have a friend who voluntarily visits me. Honestly? Same.
But Sam gets bored too easily and too often, and my home typically becomes his escape unless he’s jetsetting to some other part of the world. The man is too rich and too smart for his own good.
He turns to me. “So, the kitchen looks pretty empty. Sam doesn’t like to cook.”
I tilt my head. Yup, I’m done with the interrogation. It's time to get this show on the road. I grab his stupid fitting T-shirt and pull him down until I can slam my mouth against his.
I push him against the wall without breaking contact. He leans back, his legs falling wider to pull me into him. His mouth attacks my lips with a punishing edge until I gasp, forgetting for a second that I was supposed to be leading this.
That and any other thought vanishes when velvet slides against my tongue again. I get on my tiptoes to feel more of his warmth against me. Not close enough. Never enough.
I pull back. “I need you in my bed,” I say breathlessly.
He nods, takes my wrist in his large hands, and drags me to the bedroom he was just making fun of. He pushes me onto the bed without preamble. I bounce, but there’s no ricochet because he crawls over me, nipping at my jaw.
He moves down my neck, worrying my skin with his teeth before taking my mouth again in a searing kiss. I slide my hand over his back under his T-shirt, feeling his warmth.
I pull the fabric up to feel more of his skin against mine while he kisses me like he's starving. I push him back. “Take it off,” I demand, and he immediately follows.
Then pulls my T-shirt up. I help him take it off because he won't budge, his legs straddling my hips. He kisses down my skin, over my nipples, down to my abdomen, mapping my skin with his lips.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he says, “so hot.”
The compliment makes me go red.
He unzips my pants and pulls my boxer briefs down to free my embarrassingly hard cock, pointing right at his face. He doesn't make me wait, letting out an appreciative noise. He takes me all the way into the back of his throat like the champ he’s become. Sincere student of the crafts, this man.
He runs his tongue along the underside before pulling back. I lean back on my elbows to watch his dark eyes looking at me like a predator ready to take me apart, one swipe of that hot tongue at a time.
I pat around the side table until my hand lands on the bottle of lube and a couple of condoms I’d kept there to be prepared.
Nicholas pulls back and follows the movement of my hand.
“I can fuck you?” he asks, looking so amazed by the idea that I bite off the insult that’s right on my tongue. His eyes get dramatically wide, and his red, swollen mouth parts slightly. I get this sudden urge to feel that mouth against mine.
I swallow and just nod, uncapping the bottle.
He snatches it away from me. “I got it.”
“Getting a bit too cocky there, are we?” I look at him doubtfully.
“I researched, remember?” he assures me.
I shrug. I can always ask him to stop if he does anything wrong. And I know he will. Immediately.
When he carefully pushes one finger into me, the pressure feels too much. Fuck, it’s been long, hasn’t it? The last guy I slept with on the regular preferred to bottom.
And this man is proportionate everywhere, from hands to an especially erect organ I don’t even want to think about right now.
I take a long breath and let it out slowly, relaxing. He takes it slow, pushing the finger in until he is knuckle-deep, then pulls it out and pushes it in again. His eyes are trained on my ass with wonder.
He adds more lube, and then two of his giant fingers push in. It's too much and not enough. “That's good,” I sigh. “Just like that.”
He leans in, peppering my inner thigh with kisses. “I got you,” he says again.
I want to laugh at him, but all that comes out is a choked moan because he twists his fingers, massaging my prostate. A sudden surge of euphoria washes over me, my body quaking with need. I need to find these research materials of his. Because, good job.
He adds another finger while still rubbing my prostate. His eyes are watching them disappear into me. He’s breathing heavily, as if just the idea of feeling me with his fingers is making him lose control.
Then the fingers disappear. I hear a crinkling noise, belatedly realizing my eyes are closed. I open them to see him sliding the condom on his heavy cock.
I turn on my stomach and get up on all fours, presenting him with my ass. I feel embarrassed. I hate being vulnerable, and this is too much.
But I need this. Need him. Right now.
His hands gently slide over my ass. He pulls them apart. “Jesus. I wish you could see how beautiful you look. All ready for me,” he groans.
“C’mon, fuck me already,” I demand to gain some control over the situation. To curb the need to run away and hide from him. In him.
Then I feel the blunt head of his cock nudging against my hole. He slides it up and down my perineum, sending the nerve ends into a flurry. ”Yes, fuck me, Nicholas,” I say with a broken noise.
He hears me and pushes inside the first ring. The pressure, the feeling consumes me. My entire being narrows down to that point of contact between us.
Slowly, with rhythmic thrusts, he pushes all the way in until I feel his balls against me. “Fuck,” he breathes out, his thumb feeling around my stretched hole.
I can picture the barely restrained look on his face, ready to snap. I hope he does. And soon. “Fucking move,” I encourage.
And he does, slowly at first. Tentatively, like he's worried he’d be hurting me. Then, when he glides into me easily, he speeds up his thrusts, moving his pelvis slowly. I let out a loud groan when his cock makes contact with my prostate.
How is he this good? So fucking unfair. Not that I’m complaining.
He pulls all the way out and pushes back in, lurching me forward. My hands give out under me, and I fall on the mattress. He continues the torturous pace, his thrusts getting harder. His hands around my torso are the only thing keeping my ass up.
I bury my face into my pillow and shout against it, repeating his name like a prayer.
He’s loud too. I hear only expletives and praises.
“So beautiful, you're taking me so fucking well,” he groans. “Why haven't I been doing this all along. Fuck Elliot, I’m gonna keep you on this bed for weeks. Months. Fill you up all day until you can’t leave.”
“Yes, fill me,” I encourage.
His thrusts get faster and faster, and my body threatens to contract into a ball of tension. One hand moves down to my dick. He jerks once, twice, and I am coming hard on the mattress. My body shivering with pleasure, current flowing through from my ass to my head and my feet.
My knees give out under me, my body giving up any pretense of control. He continues his pace, only rubbing my overstimulated prostate once every few thrusts. Just when I think I can't take any more, he stills.
I feel his cock getting bigger, then deflating. He falls over me, his heavy body pinning me down, his breath blowing hair on the nape of my neck.
“That was so good,” he breathes against my ear. The sensation sends a fresh wave of heat down my neck. He kisses my neck slowly, then takes my ear into his mouth. “So good,” he says again.
Slowly, the endorphins wear off, and all I feel is heaviness, shame, and this overwhelming fear threatening to break the walls I’ve carefully built to protect me.
I lightly elbow him on his side. “Move,” I say. I don't want to be surrounded by him, by his calm, masculine smell. I can't take it anymore.
He thankfully listens and slides away from me to dispose of the condom. He even brings a wet washcloth back from the bathroom. When I see his hands moving down to help me, I snatch it off his hands. I clean myself up, wiping off the come from my chest and abdomen.
The mattress is a lost cause.
Then I trudge up to the bathroom on shaking legs, picking up my clothes on the way. I completely ignore Nicholas sitting on the bed. I need some space. Some distance between what just happened to compose myself. To go back to what we were before, not what my mind is forcing me to believe right now.
When I come back, he has pulled on his jeans. But wearing his T-shirt was apparently too much work. His muscles bulge, pulling my attention to them. I pick up his T-shirt and throw it on him.
“Dinner?” he asks when he’s finally dressed.
“Thai?” I ask.
He nods. “Love Thai.”
I walk back to the living room to find my phone on the couch. We decided on the order quickly.
Nicholas puts on a random sitcom on the television while we wait. It’s surprisingly simple. Comfortable.
When we’re done eating, he looks ready to fall asleep on the couch. I graciously allow him to stay over because I don’t really want him to die on the road. I didn’t need that much distance. Plus, Oliver would bitch about it for years if Nicholas crashed his car on the way from my house.
And if I ignore the heat that sets somewhere low in my abdomen when I find freshly brewed coffee and bagels, with a note saying “Gotta go. We’ll need to have a serious conversation about the lack of food at your place.
Clear your lunch tomorrow,” I can at least be assured there was no one to witness my cheeks turning red.