Chapter 15 Luke #2
WhiskeyAndInk: I’d lick into your ass until your legs shake. Hold you open. Fill you with my fingers and tongue while I watch you fall apart, still not letting you come. Not until you scream my name.
My hips jerk. I’m too close already, panting, staring at the screen like it’s gospel.
Me: Fuck, Silas. I’m gonna—
WhiskeyAndInk: No. You don’t get to come until I say. Take your hand off your cock. Now.
I whimper. Actually fucking whimper. And I do it. I let go, writhing in the sheets, the ache unbearable, sharp, addictive.
WhiskeyAndInk: Send me proof.
I drag my shirt up my abs and push my jeans down just enough to allow my cock free range and take a quick picture, sending it to him.
I’m leaking and harder than I’ve been in a week, since the last time he was inside of me actually.
My legs are shaking with the need to come, and my balls are so tight and achy I don’t think I’m going to make it.
WhiskeyAndInk: Good boy.
My whole body lights up like fireworks. My lip is between my teeth, eyes fluttering, sweat building at my brow.
WhiskeyAndInk: You wait for me. Next time you come, it’ll be with me buried inside you, holding you down, making you mine.
Me: Yes, Sir.
WhiskeyAndInk: Jesus, Luke.
Just two words. But I feel them like a palm around my throat. I whine—actually whine—arching off the bed, my cock twitching where it’s pressed against nothing, throbbing with need.
I type with shaking fingers.
Me: Please. I can’t wait.
WhiskeyAndInk: You want to come that badly?
I nod before I remember he can’t see me.
Me: Yes, Sir. I’ve been good.
WhiskeyAndInk: You’ve been perfect, baby. But I’m not done with you yet.
Fuck.
I press my thighs together, needing to grind into the sheets for friction like a desperate thing. My whole body is on fire, skin flushed, and trembling.
WhiskeyAndInk: Rub your cock on the sheets. Slow. Small movements. Nothing more.
But Facetime me, I want to hear and see how wrecked you are.
I drop the phone onto my bed as I shift onto my stomach and hit the Facetime icon, obeying instantly, dragging my hips forward just enough to feel the drag of the fabric. My mouth falls open.
A moan slips out—raw, needy, and completely shameless.
“Fuck,” I pant, “Coach—”
“That’s it. Let me hear you. Just like that.”
I can’t think or breathe. All I can do is move, slow and aching, the pleasure sparking at the base of my spine.
“Don’t come until I say. You understand?”
“Yes, Sir. I’m yours.”
There’s a pause long enough that I glance at my screen to see his face. He looks like he wasn’t ready for that. His eyes are dark, and I hold his stare.
“You’re mine. Say it again,” he demands, his voice sending a shockwave of need through me.
“I’m yours. Please, Sir, I’m yours.”
There’s silence on the line.
Thick. Electric.
His jaw flexes on the screen. I see the tension in his neck, the way his hand moves just slightly below the camera, rhythm barely controlled.
“You don’t know what that does to me,” he mutters, low and dark. “Hearing you say that.”
My hips roll again, and I can’t stop the moan that tears out of me. It’s too much—his voice, the weight of his attention.
“You still leaking for me, hermoso?” His voice is low. Rough. Commanding.
“Yes, Sir,” I breathe.
“Good. Flip over.”
I blink. “What?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
A shiver rips down my spine. My body moves before my brain catches up. I push up onto my knees and elbows, flipping over so I’m facing the headboard, phone propped awkwardly on a pillow. I spread my legs wider and reach back to give him a full view, exposing myself completely.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice dropping another octave. “Look at you.”
I glance at the screen, biting my lip. His jaw tightens. I watch his hand disappear beneath the frame and know exactly what he’s doing.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he growls. “Leaking. Legs spread open. Mine.”
A strangled sound rips from my throat.
“Touch yourself,” he orders. “One hand only. Slow. Stroke your cock, but don’t you dare come.”
I reach down with one hand, wrapping it around my length, moving slow and shallow. My head drops back as I moan his name.
“Look at me,” he says.
I lift my head, meeting his gaze through the screen.
“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me. I want to watch you fall apart.”
I’m so close. I squeeze hard, attempting to stop the building pleasure.
“Silas, I’m—”
“No,” he growls. “Not yet.”
My whole body trembles with the effort of obeying. The sheets beneath me are damp with sweat, and pre-cum drips from my tip. The air is thick with heat and lust.
“Fuck, Luke,” he breathes, voice shaking now too. “You’re gonna kill me.” Another pause where all I can hear is the sounds of us both stroking ourselves. Then he murmurs, “Come.”
The word slices through me. I cry out, spilling all over my hand, abs, and sheet between me and the phone with a full-body shudder.
I continue to stroke through my orgasm, panting as my eyes drop shut.
When I manage to lift my head to look at him, he’s watching me.
The look on his face is soft; yeah, there’s hunger still, but the softness takes my breath away.
Words want to spill out of my chest, silly and stupid words that I bite back, because telling my coach I love him because he let me come is probably a big no, even if he wants me. So I swallow and grin, putting on my usual flirty mask.
“Looks like I made a mess, huh, Coach? And you weren’t even inside of me. Maybe we can fix that tomorrow after practice, if you don’t ride me too hard during practice that is.”
Silas laughs, low and wrecked, but I can hear the edge of something else in it—something tender he probably doesn’t want me to hear.
“I should bench you just for that mouth,” he says, but it’s too soft to be a real threat.
I tilt my head, still sprawled out in my own mess, grinning like I didn’t just come so hard I forgot my own name. “You wouldn’t dare. I’m your star player.”
His eyes darken again, but this time with something more dangerous than lust.
“Go clean up,” he says after a beat, quieter now. “Before I drive across town and make good on everything I just promised.”
I open my mouth to say something—I don’t know what. Something stupid. Something real after all. But he ends the call before I can.
The screen goes dark. And I’m left staring at my reflection in the black glass, heart still racing, lips still parted. I should feel satisfied. But all I feel is the echo of his voice in my head—and the ache of wanting more.