Chapter 17 #3
His answering, unblinking, heated stare doesn’t just look at me—it undresses me, dragging across my face like a cool, knowing fingertip.
Leaving my hip, his hand slides up to the back of my neck, drawing me into him.
His breath heats my ear, lips damp and intoxicating enough to make me hold still.
Unexpectedly—staggeringly, heartstoppingly, about-to-ejaculate-into-my-pants unexpectedly—his tongue meets my earlobe in an unhurried and deliberate hot lick, tracing just beyond the curve.
It’s wet, soft, and, as he thrusts up into me, feels like it’s on my cock.
I don’t ever want this dance to end. Even if the current tune segues into an aggressively upbeat remix of ‘Cotton Eye Joe’, I’ll still be on the dance floor.
Except for the lairy guy with wandering elbows and a pint of lager dribbling down the front of his shirt, Gerald and I could be starring in a sexy-as-fuck music video.
As the tune winds down, drawing back a little, Gerald swipes his thumb across my bottom lip.
I may have been drooling. His own lips curve into a knowing smile.
I don’t want the night to end, either. Not while Gerald gazes at me like this.
As the song inevitably draws to a close, his hand slips into mine, and, finally, he mouths a single command. Home.
Staring out of the window of the Uber, Gerald abstractedly strokes his chin.
His long legs are relaxed and open; his other big hand rests peacefully on his knee.
In contrast, I’m crossing and recrossing my legs, fiddling with the cool air blower, and generally shifting my arse around the seat like I’ve contracted scabies.
Gerald hasn’t uttered a word since we left the club, not to me, and not to the Uber driver. It’s like we’re not even there.
For once, even I’ve lost my voice, thought plenty of words churn inside, mostly centred around what the fuck happens when we arrive back in Sutton Common and step through our front door.
Because Gerald threw down a gauntlet back there on the dance floor, and it’s left me not only with a dick hard enough to crack cement but also with more than a few questions.
As we pass over the Blackheath bridge and the driver chats to someone on his handsfree set, I can’t stand it a second longer.
“Gerald, I—“
Without warning, he lunges across the seat. “Shush.”
Fleetingly, my face is between his palms and his tongue down my throat.
The punch of a kiss shuts me up and says a lot of words for the both of us.
Yet, before I can figure any of them out, Gerald is back in his corner staring out of the window again.
The big hand, however, doesn’t return to his knee.
It stays on mine, holding it still. “Rest back,” he orders without turning to look at me. “Close your eyes.”
And, strangely, I do. Gerald’s warm palm is a quiet anchor; my jittery leg quietens, and my shoulders drop.
I lick my lips, still burning from that bruising kiss.
Every so often, the pad of his thumb sweeps a small arc along the piped trouser seam at the inside of my knee as a reminder he’s there.
It’s both erotically charged and oddly soothing. Not dissimilar to Gerald himself.
The next time we speak is when he thanks the Uber driver and I assure him I’ll send him my half.
The time after that is when I hover just beyond the entrance to the flat, and Gerald calmly toes off his shoes.
Again, as if I’m not there, he wanders into the sitting room, not bothering with the overhead light.
“I’ll…um…yes,” I dither, addressing his back. Disappointingly, another blistering kiss is not on the cards. “Okay, then. Night.”
Slipping out of my own shoes, I get as far as the door to my room.
“Come here. I haven’t finished with you yet.”
Gerald’s voice is thick clotted cream. I’d like to imagine I linger, consider, weigh things up.
In reality, I spin on my heel and skid across the wooden floor back to the sitting room.
Lit by a side lamp, Gerald lounges on the sofa, muscled legs spread wide.
As if he’s been waiting for me all evening.
Unhurriedly, he unfastens his shirt, each button tugged apart a teasing reveal of skin and shadow.
His hand moves down to his fly, and a hot ache pulses through me.
I’m still struck dumb—me, whose words usually flow like silk.
This is Gerald! Uptight, fussy, celibate Gerald!
He’s caught me off guard, in a situation where I normally feel most sure of myself.
Maybe that’s why his controlled unveiling feels so charged.
Below his navel is a line of dark hair, like a runway, down to his fingers, teasing the ridge of his dick through the denim of his jeans.
“Hey, housemate.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “My eyes are up here.”
Somehow, I find my voice or borrow someone else’s, because surely, this desperate husky croak can’t belong to me. “They’ve got serious competition.”
Laughing gruffly, his gaze dips to his fingers, still toying with the outline of what, from here, is an impressively thick cock.
“What, this thing, you mean?” Every button is undone.
His trousers hang open, exposing his plain white boxers.
“You want to take a closer look? Are you a size queen, Alaric? Do you like them big?”
“I…I’m…” struggling to string anything useful together, let alone a sassy and seductive response.
As he steadily palms himself through the thin cotton, Gerald has no trouble at all.
In place of words, I sink to my knees; my body knowing it needs squillions of his babies hitting the back of my throat, even if my brain’s still paralysed.
“I like my men like my curtains,” I manage, because, obviously, bringing soft furnishings into sexy times is always a good idea. “Well-hung.”
Gerald pushes his jeans a little lower on his hips, exposing the small fading scar from his recent surgery.
His hand moves inside his boxers, and he fondles his balls.
From the swollen outline of his dick, I’m surprised there’s room.
“Do you want to feel how big I am?” Through his lashes, his dark brown gaze flicks up to mine.
“Or shall we cut to the taste? Tell me what you want, Alaric.”
My heart kicks, trying to outrun my mind, and my dick throbs in time.
I swallow drily. Tell me what you want, Alaric.
Those words, spoken in that voice? It’s smooth, intimate, like satin with an edge.
And that hand? It hasn’t even touched me yet—hasn’t touched Gerald yet, not properly—but I already belong to it.
Plus, that delicious cock…fuck. A bubble of something rises in my chest. If I don’t move or shout or get my mouth around this man right this second, I might burst.
“I think I want to know who the fuck’s kidnapped grumpy Gerald.” I knock his hand away. “And right now, I don’t care if that thing in your pants is a Tic Tac. I’m still going to find a way to gag on it.”
I bite down on a whimper. Tic Tacs? Mars Bars?
Jumbo-sized bananas? Not even close. Gerald, it transpires, has been hiding a fucking clarinet between his legs.
Whoever gets to bounce on that long-term is one super fucking lucky guy.
Play it cool, Alaric, play it cool. You are literally a urologist and a bone fide blowjob princess.
Hands on Gerald’s thighs and unemployed, seeing as the thing’s defying gravity, I give it a straight-up lick.
His dick’s as veiny as his ropey arms; the biggest, dorsal vein is thick and engorged.
I want to suck on that vein like it’s the river of life.
When I trace it with my tongue, slower this time and more teasing, from the root to his tip, Gerald lets out a satisfied grunt.
His fingers drag through my hair, the tips grazing my scalp with just enough pressure to send a ripple of heat down my spine.
“More,” he orders, softly. The pressure on my head increases a fraction. “I want your pretty mouth full of me. You want to taste me like that, Alaric?”
“Fuck yes.”
“Can you go deep?”
Flirtatiously, I do the opposite, mouthing his plum swollen head like it’s my first, gazing up at him through my lashes.
“Fucker.” Gerald grunts again, the pressure on my head tightening even more. “Naughty boys get punished, you know.”
He smells raw and earthy, an intoxicating blend of skin and salt and natural, manly musk.
I can’t get fucking enough of it, nor of his grip on my hair.
He directs me deeper, tickling my tonsils.
If this is punishment, then he can fucking punish me morning and night.
I rub myself through my trousers, needing to get off.
When I swallow, he holds my head still, thrusts up, and calmly fucks my mouth like it’s nothing but a convenient hole.
I can deep-throat like a champ, but as he gets close, pumping harder, I gasp for breath.
My eyes water, and saliva spills from the corners of my mouth.
A harsh and frenzied snort bursts through my nose, I swallow and swallow again with frantic urgency.
Panic, instant and visceral, floods me. A dry heave wracks me.
Instantly, Gerald yanks me up. “Shh, sweet,” he pants. “You okay? You want me to stop? Or you want more?”
Tears stream down my face; my voice is hoarse. I squeeze my throbbing dick. “Want more.”
“Good boy.” He nods once before hauling my face closer to his. “Such a good boy.”
I think he’s going to kiss me, taste himself on me. Perhaps I’ll jerk him. Perhaps he’ll finish off himself. He’s nearly there—precum’s oozing from him like a lit firework.
But no. Oh no. With an obscene, long lick of his hot tongue, Gerald cleans the tears and snot from my cheeks. Then he pushes me back down again.
“Finish me off.”
What is it about his tone that has me following his every command?
Immediately, I close my mouth back around him, my blood pumping like a fountain.
Fresh tears flood my eyes; I’m choking on him.
Yet still I suck as if I’m a sponge soaking him up, soaking up his pre-cum.
Yielding to the tight coils of his fingers in my scalp, my whole body is soft and limp (except for my cock); I lap up his fucking ‘good boy, good boy’ moaned over and over and over again, like that’s something I fucking enjoy now.
Gerald doesn’t warn me he’s coming, but when he swells impossibly more and stiffens, he lets out a sound that has me fucking hosing into my pants at the same as he jizzes down my throat.
He doesn’t let me off until I’ve licked up and swallowed down every drop and my own spunk has cooled in my crotch.
Only then does he haul me to my wobbly feet, thank me with another of those slamming kisses on my mouth, and order me to bed.
That guy and his Top Gear chart can go to hell. Competition blown away.