Chapter 10 Kings Don’t Sleep Easy #2
He turned me around.
One hand on my shoulder, spinning me to face him, and then both hands hit the wall either side of my head and he was in my face, close enough that I could feel his breath, close enough that I could see the exact shade his eyes had gone.
Dark and intent and completely certain of what he was about to do.
He kissed me once. Hard and brief, more punctuation than affection, teeth catching my lower lip before pulling away.
Then he dropped.
He took his time getting there, mouth dragging down my throat, teeth at my collarbone, tongue tracing the center line of my chest. He paused at my stomach, pressed his lips flat against the muscle there, and I felt them curve.
He was smiling against my skin and I was going to kill him for dragging this out.
“Luka.”
“Shut up, Troy.”
He got his hands on my hips and turned me again, but not all the way, just enough, and pressed my chest into the wall with one hand flat between my shoulder blades.
I heard him drop to his knees behind me.
Felt both his hands spread across my ass, thumbs pressing in, pulling me open, and I had just enough time to pull in a breath before his mouth found my hole.
The sound I made hit the wall in front of my face and bounced back, loud and broken and beyond my control.
His tongue pressed flat and then pointed, working against me in slow deliberate strokes, and I had both forearms braced against the wall and my forehead pressed to it and absolutely no composure left to speak of.
He licked into me thorough and unhurried, the same way he'd taken apart the rest of me, like he had nothing else scheduled and nowhere else to be, his hands keeping me spread and held exactly where he wanted me.
The wet sounds were obscene, filling the room, and I could feel saliva dripping down my thighs in warm streaks.
“Fuck, Luka, I can't—”
He didn't answer. Just kept going. Working deeper, pulling sounds from me that were not words, just noise, low and continuous and beyond my ability to moderate.
My cock was hanging hard and untouched between my legs and every stroke of his tongue sent a pulse through it that made my hips try to move and his hands kept me from going anywhere.
I was leaking onto the carpet now, a steady drip I couldn't stop.
Then he did it.
One long, continuous stroke, tongue dragging from my hole forward, through the crease, between my thighs, up the underside of my cock from root to tip in a single unbroken line that made me slam my palm against the wall and say his name in a way I'd regret later when I had enough brain function to feel embarrassed.
Then his mouth closed over the head of me.
He took his time with that too, at first, lips wrapped tight just over the tip, tongue working the slit, hand coming up to wrap around the base.
I looked down at him. He was looking back up at me from where he knelt and the expression on his face was the most insufferably composed thing I'd ever seen given what he was currently doing with his mouth.
Then he stopped composing himself and just went down.
All the way. Took me to the back of his throat and swallowed and kept going, and the sensation punched all the air out of my lungs in a rush that left me gasping.
He pulled back slowly, dragging his lips up my length with enough suction that I felt it in my spine.
Did it again. Set a rhythm that was deep and filthy and completely deliberate, his hand working the base in tight strokes, his other hand still palming my ass, squeezing hard enough to hurt in a way that made everything better.
My hand went into his hair. Tightened until I felt him make a sound around my cock that went straight through me like voltage.
Then he pulled off entirely, spit connecting his mouth to my cock in a thin string that broke when he leaned back.
I looked down. He was still on his knees, chin tilted up, mouth wet and swollen, and he was just looking at my cock from an inch away with an expression that was pure unguarded appreciation.
His hand was still wrapped around the base and he turned it slightly, like he was examining a piece of art he was proud to own.
“Every time,” he said. Low and private, almost to himself.
“Every time what.”
“This thing.” He ran his thumb up the underside, one slow stroke from root to tip, watching the way it twitched in his grip. “I keep forgetting how fucking big you are.” He shook his head, pressed his lips to the side of the shaft, open-mouthed, wet. “Ridiculous, Troy. Absolutely ridiculous.”
“You're commentating on my cock like a sports event.”
“I'm appreciating it.” Another open kiss, lower this time, his tongue pressing flat against the thick vein running underneath.
He mouthed his way back up, taking his time, and when he reached the head his tongue circled it slow and thorough before his lips wrapped back around it and he sucked, just the tip, cheeks hollowing with enough suction to make my vision go briefly sideways.
Two slick fingers pressed against my hole, and I realized at some point between turning me around and dropping to his knees he'd gotten the bottle from the nightstand, because his fingers were already slick when they pressed in, and they went in with a twist that punched a sound out of me that bounced off every wall in the room.
He worked his fingers in slowly, not stretching exactly, more exploring, relearning the territory with the particular focus of a man who'd done this before and knew exactly where to press.
His mouth kept moving on my cock at the same tempo, and the combination of both things simultaneously was making coherent thought genuinely difficult.
I was making sounds I didn't recognize, broken syllables that might have been his name or might have been nothing at all.
“You're still so tight.” He pulled off enough to speak clearly. “Even now. Every time I touch you here—” he pressed deeper, fingers spreading slightly, and I made a sound I wasn't going to acknowledge “—you're so fucking tight and warm and you open up so pretty for me.”
“Luka.”
“What.” He licked a stripe up my cock while his fingers worked, curling inside me to find that spot. “I'm busy.”
“Don't talk about my ass like it's yours.”
“Isn't it.” He found the right angle with two fingers and pressed, and my palm hit the wall and stayed there, braced hard enough that my knuckles went white.
“Your cock too,” he said casually, like he was discussing the weather.
“Could write a thesis on this cock. The weight of it in my hand. The way it gets thicker right here—” his fist tightened right below the head, squeezing in a way that made my vision blur “—the way it leaks when I do this.” His thumb swept the slit and collected what had gathered there, a thick bead that strung out when he pulled his hand away, and he made a low sound of satisfaction.
“Obscene amount of pre-come, Troy. Every single time. I could get you off just from this alone.”
“Are you going to keep talking or—”
He went back down all the way and simultaneously added a third finger, and the sound I made was not quiet and I wasn't trying to make it quiet because the dual pressure of being filled and being swallowed whole at the same time had stripped the last of whatever composure I'd been maintaining.
I was completely open for him now, stretched around his fingers, and he was working them in a rhythm that matched his mouth, both holes filled, both being used, and the thought of it alone was enough to make my thighs shake.
His fingers curled. Found the spot. Pressed hard and deliberate.
He pulled back until just the head was in his mouth and sucked hard while his fingers worked that spot in tight circles, and my hand fisted in his hair and my hips drove forward and he took it, all of it, let me push deeper into his throat while his fingers kept their rhythm inside me.
Then he pulled off completely, fingers withdrawing at the same time, and before I'd registered the loss of both he was on his feet and his hands were on me.
He walked me backward to the bed. Not gently.
Both palms flat on my chest, pushing with intent, and the backs of my knees hit the mattress and I went down and he followed, climbing over me, and for a second I thought he was taking over entirely.
But he just looked at me from above, chest heaving, mouth still wet from what he'd been doing with it, chin shining with spit and pre-come, and then he rolled off and dropped onto his back beside me.
Laid his arms out. Looked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling hard.
“Your turn,” he said.
I looked at him. The lean length of him stretched out across the sheets, chest rising and falling, cock standing up flushed and hard and leaking a steady bead at the tip that caught the light and slid down the shaft.
Six months between visits and every time I forgot what he looked like like this and then I remembered all at once and it hit me like a punch to the chest.
I got up onto my knees and swung over him, straddling his thighs, and put both hands flat on his chest.
He tucked both arms behind his head and watched me with half-lidded eyes. Completely open. Offering himself up with the particular confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was giving access to and knew I wanted it.
I started at his neck. Dragged my mouth up the column of his throat, teeth scraping, felt his pulse jumping under my lips faster than his expression was letting on.
His jaw was rough with two days of growth and I ran my mouth along it, kissed the corner of his lips, pulled back before he could deepen it.
He made a low frustrated sound that I filed away for later.
“Patience,” I said.
“You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” I bit his earlobe and felt the full-body shiver that moved through him, rippling down his chest to his stomach.