CHAPTER 22 #2
For a second, I almost say something stupid like 'You don't have to,' or 'There's no pressure,' but I bite my tongue at the last second because—fuck that. Let the man explore.
And explore he does.
Without warning, he wraps his hand around the base of my cock, angles it up, and takes me into his mouth in one smooth, devastating motion.
"Fuck!" The word tears out of me, loud and graceless, as wet heat engulfs me, his mouth sliding down, down, down until the head of my cock hits the back of his throat. And he doesn't stop, doesn't gag, just opens up and takes me deeper.
My hips buck up—I can't help it, can't control it—and he takes it, doesn't pull off, just opens his throat and swallows me down like he was made for this.
"Jesus Christ," I gasp, my hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands. "You sure you haven't done this before?"
He somehow manages to chuckle with his mouth full of my dick, and the vibration travels up my spine like electricity. His throat constricts around me, and I see the entire Milky Way.
He pulls back, lips dragging along my length with obscene slowness, then sinks down again, faster, before setting a rhythm that's urgent and messy and so fucking good I can barely remember my own name.
I force my eyes to stay open because I need to see this.
Need to watch his head bob, his lips stretched around me, the way his cheeks hollow when he sucks.
I want to memorize every detail: the concentration on his face, the way his hand comes up to cup my balls, rolling them gently, the way drool escapes the corner of his mouth because he's taking me so deep there's nowhere for it to go.
It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed. Nothing else even comes close.
His tongue does this swirling thing around my head, a move he definitely didn't learn from a manual, and I moan, loud and shameless, my hand tightening in his hair.
"Fuck, Ace. So good. So fucking good."
He hums in response, and the sensation shoots through me like a lightning strike, and I'm dangerously close to ending this embarrassingly fast.
I'm lost in it, drowning in pleasure, every nerve ending firing at once, when suddenly my cock slips free with an obscene, wet pop that echoes in the quiet room.
Before I can protest—and trust me, I want to fucking protest—Ace spreads my legs wider, hooks his arms under my thighs, and pulls me closer to the edge of the bed, like I'm weightless.
"What are you—oh my God."
His tongue licks a long, deliberate stripe from my balls down, down, all the way down to my hole, and my entire body freezes. Every synapse misfires. Every thought evaporates.
For half a second, some distant, rational part of my brain thinks maybe this is too much, maybe he's not ready, maybe I should check in. But then Ace traces a slow, torturous circle around my rim with the tip of his tongue, and that thought vanishes like it never existed.
Because if he wants to taste me, who the fuck am I to deny him?
I spread my legs wider in invitation, practically folding myself in half, and he takes it, licking and sucking and teasing until I'm writhing against the sheets, my hands fisted in the fabric, sounds I didn't know I could make spilling out of me one after another.
Then he pushes his tongue inside me, breaching that tight ring of muscle, and I nearly levitate off the bed.
"Ace," I gasp, my back arching so hard it almost hurts. "Fuck, yes, right there."
He pulls back just enough to say, "Turn over," voice rough and wrecked.
I'm already moving before he finishes the sentence, rolling onto my stomach like my body knows what he wants before my brain does. The mattress provides delicious friction against my aching cock, and I have to resist the urge to just grind against it.
Ace grabs my hips, those big hands spanning my hipbones easily, and lifts them up, positioning me exactly how he wants me. Ass up, face down, completely exposed and vulnerable, and I have no idea what his plan is but I don't care. Whatever he wants, he can have.
He can have everything.
His tongue returns, licking and teasing, circling my hole before dipping inside again, and I'm making sounds that would be embarrassing if I had any brain cells left to care.
Then I feel it—his finger, slick with spit, pressing inside me alongside his tongue.
The sensation is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.
He works me open slowly, carefully, his finger sliding deeper, crooking slightly, searching, and then—
"There!" I practically shout when he finds my prostate. "Right there, oh fuck, right there—"
He hits it again, deliberately, with purpose, and I can't stop the sounds spilling out of me. I don't even try. I just let myself feel, let myself drown in the sensation of his finger inside me, stroking that spot over and over while his other hand grips my ass, kneading the flesh.
"You're a surprisingly fast learner," I manage between moans, the words coming out slurred and breathless.
"Of course I am." His voice is smug, confident, and somehow that makes it hotter. "Did you think I was all muscle, no brain?"
"Well—"
He presses the tip of his finger directly against my prostate and moves it in a small, devastating circle that makes my toes curl, my hands claw at the sheets, and my words die in my throat.
"Don't you dare answer that," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
I laugh, breathless and wrecked, and he adds a second finger, stretching me wider. The burn is perfect, that edge between pleasure and pain that makes everything sharper, brighter, more.
He spreads his fingers, opening me up, and I push back against him, greedy for more, for everything and anything he's willing to give me.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Take it. You're doing so good."
His fingers work me open with patience and precision, hitting my prostate with nearly every thrust, and I'm a writhing mess beneath him, reduced to nothing but sensation and need. My cock is leaking against the mattress, creating a wet spot, and I'm so turned on it's painful.
Three fingers now, stretching me wider, and the fullness is incredible. I'm panting into the pillow, inhaling his scent, my whole body trembling, right on that edge where pleasure becomes too much to bear.
"Is this enough?" he asks, voice rough.
My brain struggles to process. "Enough for what?" The words come out slurred.
"Enough stretch to fit my dick inside you instead." He pauses, and I feel his fingers still inside me. "Unless you don't want that."
I want to laugh at the absurdity of it. Unless I don't want that. Like there's any universe where I don't want exactly that. But I'm too horned up for humor. Too desperate. Too far gone. So instead, I blurt out, "Oh, just fuck me already."
The words barely leave my mouth before his fingers are gone, sliding out and leaving me empty and clenching around nothing, and I almost whine at the loss. "Wait, I didn't mean right this second, I need a minute to—"
But then Ace is stretching over me, his body covering mine like a blanket, reaching for his nightstand, and I roll onto my back just in time to watch his body extend. All those muscles shift and flex, his abs elongating, his arms reaching, and it's like watching art in motion.
I can't help myself—I lean up and lick a stripe across his chest. He tastes like salt and sex and mine.
He sits back on his heels, condom wrapper and lube in hand, and I watch his face transform. The confidence wavers, uncertainty creeping in like fog, doubt clouding those eyes that were so sure just seconds ago.
Not on my watch.
I sit up, clearing my throat, channeling every ounce of authority I possess. "I'll take over from here, thank you."
I pluck the items from his hands before he can second-guess himself, and he laughs, this surprised, delighted sound, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders.
"Lie down," I order, pointing at the bed like I'm directing traffic.
He obeys, settling back against the pillows, and I take a moment to appreciate the view. All that muscle, that perfect body, his cock hard and flushed dark at the tip, leaking, leaving a trail of precum on his skin.
He's a fucking masterpiece.
I tear open the condom wrapper with my teeth, because I'm nothing if not dramatic, and roll it down his length. He hisses at the contact, hips jerking up.
Then I pour lube into my palm, way too much, and slick him up, stroking his cock from base to tip, watching his face as I work him over. His eyes flutter closed, his mouth falling open, and I make sure to memorize the expression.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word sounds punched out of him, forced from his lungs.
I stroke him again, and again, enjoying the way his abs tense, and the way his thighs tremble slightly with the effort of holding still.
"Ready?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
He nods, urgently, his throat working as he swallows.
I straddle his waist, positioning myself over him, and place one palm on his chest for balance. His heart hammers against my touch, racing, and knowing I did that sends a thrill through me.
With my other hand, I reach back and guide his cock to my hole, feeling the blunt head press against my entrance, and then, slowly, so slowly, I start to sink down.
The stretch is intense. He's thick, so fucking thick, and even with all that prep it's almost too much. My body resists for a moment, muscles clenching, but I breathe through it, opening up, letting him in.
Inch by inch, I lower myself, taking him deeper, feeling him split me open in the best way. The burn is exquisite, and I don't stop, don't hesitate, just keep going until I'm fully seated on his hips, his cock buried to the hilt inside me.
"Fuck," we both say at the same time, and despite everything, I laugh.
Ace’s hands come to my hips, gripping tight, fingers digging sharply into my flesh. His eyes are squeezed shut, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump, his whole body taut like he's trying not to come right now.
"Hey." I lean forward. "Eyes on me."
His eyes flutter open, dark and unfocused, pupils blown so wide they've swallowed the blue.
I hold his gaze as I start to move. Slow at first, just rolling my hips, adjusting to the fullness, the stretch, the feeling of him inside me.
He's so deep I can feel him everywhere, pressing against places that make my breath catch.
But slow doesn't last long because I need more.
I lift up, feeling him slide almost all the way out, just the head still inside me, and then I drop back down, taking him deep in a single motion.
"Devon," he gasps, my name sounding like a prayer, like a curse, like everything in between. "You feel so good."
"You feel pretty fucking good yourself." I set a rhythm, riding him with purpose, lifting and dropping, my thighs burning with the effort. "Your cock is perfect. You know that? Perfect size, perfect shape, perfect everything."
"Jesus Christ, your mouth."
"You love my mouth." I grind down, changing the angle, and stars explode behind my eyelids when he hits that spot inside me.
I'm bouncing on his cock now, chasing that perfect angle, my thighs protesting, but I don't care because the angle is just right and he's hitting something inside me that makes my whole body sing.
His cock drags against my prostate with every stroke, sending sparks up my spine, and I'm making sounds I've never heard myself make, high and desperate and completely uncontrolled.
Then his hands grip my waist tighter, stopping my movements, and before I can protest he's thrusting up into me with a force that steals my breath.
"Oh fuck."
He does it again, and again, setting a brutal pace, fucking up into me while holding me in place, and I'm completely at his mercy.
Pinned. Helpless.
Exactly where I want to be.
This is what I've been missing my whole life. This power, this strength, this relentless energy that only comes from fucking an athlete. He's not just strong. He's conditioned. Built for endurance. He can keep this pace up probably longer than I can stay conscious.
My head is bobbing back and forth with the force of his thrusts, and I'm struggling to stay upright, my hands scrabbling for purchase on his chest, on his shoulders, anywhere I can hold on.
The room fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, my breathless moans, his grunts of effort. It's obscene and perfect, and I never want it to end.
I'm not controlling anything anymore. Not the pace, not the angle, not even the sounds spilling out of me. Ace has taken over completely, and all I can do is hold on and take it, let him use me, let him fuck me like he owns me.
"Yes," I gasp, the word barely coherent. "Fuck, yes. Harder. Harder. Just like that. Don't stop. Don't—"
He adjusts his angle slightly, and suddenly he's nailing my prostate with every thrust, and I'm gone. Lost. Floating somewhere outside my body where nothing exists except the pleasure building and building and building.
His hand wraps around my cock, and I nearly scream.
The dual sensation of his cock inside me, pounding that spot that makes me see my maker, and his hand on my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, is too much. Way too much. I can't take it, can't process it, can't do anything but feel.
"Close," he grunts, the single word taking visible effort, his rhythm faltering slightly.
That's all the warning I get before my orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, sudden and devastating, ripping through me with a force that makes my whole body seize up.
I come with a shout, cum spilling all over his chest, his stomach, reaching his chin, painting him mine. My cock pulses in his grip, wave after wave, and I can't stop, can't control it, just ride it out while he fucks me through it.
Through the haze of pleasure, I watch Ace's face contort, his rhythm stuttering, becoming erratic, and then he's coming too, his hips jerking up one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills the condom.
I collapse on top of him, boneless and spent, my full weight pressing him into the mattress. I'm pretty sure I won't be able to move for a week. Maybe a month.
Which is fine. Perfect, actually. This is exactly where I want to be.
And just as I think I can't possibly feel any better, Ace's arm comes around me, holding me close, his hand stroking lazy patterns on my back—up and down my spine, over my shoulder blades, soothing and grounding.
His other hand threads through my hair, fingers gentle against my scalp.
We lie there, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync, our bodies still connected, his softening cock still inside me.
I don't know if you can be addicted to a person. But if you can, this man is my drug of choice.