17. CHAPTER 17 #2
I move first, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck, but it doesn’t allow me enough control so I slide into his hair. It’s so much softer than I ever imagined it to be as I grip it in my fist and tug his head back, exposing the long curve of his throat.
I dip my head and drag my lips along the fine stubble of his jaw.
He grabs my ass with both hands. The sensation of his fingers digging in—so rough and greedy—flings away every last excuse I have for not wanting this.
I grip at his hip and roll against him. Hard.
I want to ruin him.
I want him to remember it tomorrow, even if he pretends not to.
I press him into the bricks. Not gentle. Not asking for permission.
I can't remember ever wanting another body this badly.
Even in the past, there was always some measure of restraint.
Yet with Carey, it’s like I’m losing him the longer I go without swallowing him whole.
But he doesn’t care about the danger. He only knows that I’m still here, refusing to let him go; my body giving him mixed messages I don’t have the language to explain.
I run my palm up his chest, feeling the speed of his heartbeat.
My desire to drag him back to the shop and break every unspoken rule is so intense that I have to dig my teeth into his collarbone just to stop myself from shouting my hunger out loud.
He pulls me off—gripping my jaw in a way that screams his disapproval. Then he drags his nails over my collarbone in retaliation so deep I might have bruises in the morning.
His hip and thigh grind against me so expertly my legs nearly buckle.
Every time I take a breath, his grip tightens.
His forehead falls into the crook of my neck.
His hand forces its way between our bodies until he’s grabbing me.
There’s no hesitation in his movements.
He’s done this before.
The friction is unreal.
He knows how to make a man feel good.
His breathing is hot and ragged, his hand is so greedy, so practiced, so right.
I want to call him a brat, to tell him that he has no idea what he’s doing to me, but the truth is, he does—he knows exactly how to turn me inside out with a single touch.
For a second, I’m convinced he’s going to take it further, to undo my belt, rip me open, and jerk me off right here in the alley. But instead he stops and just holds my dick, not moving, not letting go. Just allowing the weight of what he’s doing to vibrate between us.
Every part of my body is buzzing, all my old rules collapsing under the weight of that one hand.
I close my eyes, and let myself have this, just for a minute. Because after this, who knows what will happen. But for now, I'm not alone, and that's enough.
“Do you want more?”
I nod, our skin rubbing together because I can’t make the words come out of my mouth.
“Do you know what that means?”
I repeat the action.
“Are you ready to let a guy make you come?”
“I want you to make me come.”
Carey drops to his knees without hesitation.
He’s at my fly, popping the button and yanking at the zipper. Rough, but not clumsy. Like he’s done it a thousand times before.
He takes my dick in his hand, wraps his fist around the base, and drags upwards.
It’s slow at first, his thumb working the underside. And then he does this thing, this twisting motion at the head that makes my knees shake and my hips punch forward like I’m a puppet being controlled. And I guess that’s exactly what I am.
I’ve been jerked off before, hundreds of times probably. But this… this isn’t a hand job. It’s a statement.
It’s not gentle, not even slightly. But nothing he’s ever done has been soft.
He spits on me, pumps a few times, then spits again.
The noises coming from me are shameful. Then I hear the tiniest whimper, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s mine as well.
Carey huffs out a laugh, and it makes me feel the most unhinged I’ve ever felt. I’m literally coming apart in the hands of the man at my feet.
He’s watching my face, not my dick, and that’s so much worse.
This is what I’ve fantasized about.
This is what I’ve wanted, someone to control me on an otherworldly level.
I feel so fucking free.
One of his hands is braced against my thigh, splayed open. The other is jerking my cock, obscene and slow; his fingers working every inch of me like he needs to commit it to memory. Like he knows this can never happen again.
Right now, though? I have no shame.
Let someone find us.
Let them dare to take this feeling away from me.
It’s so much. So much more than I thought it’d be.
I won’t last.
I need to tell him to ease up, to go slower, to stop, but my body is on fire and my mouth has too many questions.
I want to say his name.
I want to say a thousand things—every savage thought I’ve had since he walked into my life a month ago. But all that comes out is a low, hedonistic moan. “When?”
He tilts his head up further, and leans forward so he’s pumping me beside his face instead of in front of it. Then his lips spread into the same devilish grin that has become my undoing. “You can’t possibly have thought you were my first.”
I lean down to grasp his neck. “Who?”