Chapter 7
When he continues to stay silent, I try to recover, aiming for casual. “We could do this again, if you wanted to.”
More silence follows, broken only by our breathing, and I’m grateful for the blindfold hiding the desperation that must show in my face.
When he still doesn’t respond, I reach up, fingers seeking his face. “Let me touch you at least.”
His hand captures my wrist, his grip firm but gentle. “Don’t.”
The single word stings, but when I try to pull away, he holds fast.
“I’m sorry.” My fingers curl into my palm. “I thought… never mind. You can go.”
“No.” His grip softens, and he guides my hand back down. “You misunderstand.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
He pulls me closer, his body heat radiating through my thin T-shirt. “I would like to see you again. Very much.”
“Then why—”
“I don’t want you to touch my face.” The words come out in a rush. “I don’t want you to be scared away.”
“Scared away?” My brow furrows beneath the blindfold. “Why?”
His exhale carries the weight of years. “My face isn’t what most people consider attractive. There was an accident years ago.”
“You think I’ll be repulsed.” The realization is both heartbreaking and somehow a relief.
“People usually are.” The admission comes with no self-pity, only resignation.
My lips curve upward. “Good thing I’m not most people.”
“You say that now,” he says roughly, “but you haven’t seen me yet.”
“I don’t need to see.” My hand finds his chest, his heart hammering beneath my palm. “I know the way you care, the way you took time out of your busy schedule to look after me. You’re kind.”
His fingers brush my cheek in a feather-light caress. “Kindness doesn’t erase scars.”
“Then let me keep the blindfold,” I offer. “For as long as you need. I don’t care about your appearance.”
His breath catches, and he pulls me close enough for his warm exhale to ghost across my lips. “You mean that?”
The vulnerability in his question cracks something open inside me. “Yes. I mean it.”
Relief floods through me, and I lean into him, my body seeking his warmth. My hands find his, bringing them to my lips where I kiss his knuckles.
“I mean it,” I repeat, my lips moving over his skin. “The blindfold can stay. Whatever you need to be comfortable.”
His breath hitches, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. “You would do that?”
“Yes.” I kiss each finger, learning the topography of his hands with my mouth. “I want to be with you, however you’ll allow.”
His fingers tremble within my hold. “Why?”
The question hangs between us, weighted with insecurity and hope.
I consider my answer, knowing it matters more than any line I’ve ever delivered on camera. “Because when I hear your voice, I’m safe. Because you’ve seen me at my worst and stayed. Because you fed me soup and read me stories when I couldn’t even sit up.”
His forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling in the narrow space between us. “May I kiss you, Elliot?”
“Please.” The word emerges on an eager breath.
The first touch of his lips to mine land feather soft, tentative, as if testing whether I’ll pull away. When I don’t, his hand cups the back of my neck, drawing me closer. His lips are softer than I expected, a contrast to the firmness of his fingers over my skin.
I sigh into his mouth, my hands finding his shoulders to steady myself. Despite the days of recovery, my legs remain unsteady, though now for a different reason.
The kiss deepens, and he traces the seam of my lips, seeking entry.
I grant it without hesitation, his tongue filling my senses with hints of coffee and mint.
Without sight, the slight stubble on his chin abrading my skin, the heat radiating from his body, and the subtle scent of my soap warmed by his body are all amplified.
My body responds with embarrassing speed, blood rushing south until I’m half-hard in my sweatpants. I press closer, seeking more contact, and his answering hardness nudges my hip.
“You want me, too,” I murmur into his mouth, relief and desire tangling in my chest.
I had wondered, more than once when he rejected a private performance, if GentlemanX didn’t feel arousal in the same way others do. If maybe the reason he hides his face extended to more of his body.
His hands slide down my back to settle at my waist. “More than you know.”
The confession sends heat spiraling through me. I rock my hips forward, and his sharp intake of breath gratifies me. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath to touch warm, bare skin. The firm muscles of his abdomen jump under my exploration.
“Let me take care of you,” I whisper, trailing kisses along his jaw. “Please.”
His grip tightens on my waist. “You’re still recovering.”
“I’m strong enough for this.” My hand drifts lower, tracing the outline of him through his pants. “I want to taste you.”
A growl rumbles from his chest, the sound pure Alpha, and desire shivers through me. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.” I squeeze his throbbing cock. “Let me.”
With my hands on his thighs for guidance, I sink to my knees, the carpet rough through my thin pajama pants. My hands find his belt, fumbling with the buckle before managing to undo it. The button and zipper follow, the metallic sound loud in the quiet room.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking across my bottom lip. “You’re beautiful like this.”
Heat rises to my face at the compliment. With trembling fingers, I ease his pants and underwear down, freeing him. My breath catches as my fingers wrap around him, discovering his size.
“Oh,” I whisper, one hand not enough to encircle him. “You’re big.”
His laugh holds a note of self-consciousness. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I stroke him slowly, learning his shape. “It’s perfect. I wish I could see you.”
“Another time, perhaps,” he groans as my thumb circles the head of his cock, gathering the moisture there.
Greedy for more, I lean forward, guided by touch alone. The musky scent of him fills my nostrils, masculine and intoxicating. Here, his pheromones are thicker, curling around my senses. My tongue darts out, tracing the vein along the underside before circling the crown.
Above me, his breathing grows ragged. His hand cups the back of my head, not pushing, simply resting there as if needing the connection. I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks and drawing a moan from his throat that sends pride surging through me.
My own arousal strains the front of my sweatpants. Without breaking rhythm, I slide a hand down to palm myself through the fabric. The dual sensation of his hardness filling my mouth and the pressure of my hand on my dick sends sparks of pleasure racing up my spine.
“That’s it,” he encourages, fingers tangling in my hair. “Touch yourself while you take me.”
The instructions send a fresh wave of heat through me. I slip my hand beneath my waistband, wrapping fingers around myself and matching the rhythm of my mouth on him.
Time loses meaning as we move together, my world narrowed to the weight of him on my tongue, and the sounds of pleasure that escape him with each bob of my head.
Without sight, I focus on his reactions, to the way his fingers tighten in my hair, the way his hips flex before he forces himself to stillness, and the quickening of his breath.
My own pleasure builds, spiraling higher with each stroke of my hand. Though I’ve performed countless times on camera, nothing has ever felt as erotic as being blindfolded on my knees, pleasuring this man I’ve been fantasizing about for months.
“Elliot,” he warns, my name coming out strained. “I’m close.”
I increase my pace in answer, taking him deeper, wanting to bring him over the edge. His hand tightens in my hair, the slight pain only adding to my arousal.
When he comes, his deep groan vibrates through my bones. His salt and musk flood my mouth, and I swallow without hesitation. The intimacy of the act pushes me toward my own release, my hand moving faster, pressure building at the base of my spine.
“Let go,” he commands, rough with satisfaction. “Let me hear you.”
His words tip me over the edge, and orgasm crashes through me, white-hot and overwhelming, tearing a cry from my throat. “Alpha!”
My body shudders through the aftershocks, his hand gentle in my hair as he guides me through the waves of pleasure. When the intensity fades, leaving me boneless and spent, I rest my forehead on his thigh, my breaths gasping out.
“That was…” Words fail me, my mind still floating in post-orgasmic haze.
His thumb traces my lower lip, wiping away traces of him. “Yes. It was.”
Strong hands grasp my elbows, lifting me from my knees with effortless strength. My legs tremble beneath me, weak from illness and the aftermath of pleasure. GentlemanX hugs me to his chest, his heart beating a rapid tattoo through our clothes.
His lips find mine in a deep, claiming kiss that contains the flavor of us, his tongue twining around mine, and if I were at my usual strength, I’d have been ready for round two by the time we break apart.
His forehead rests on mine, our breathing synchronized in the quiet apartment, and he traces my bottom lip with his thumb.
“We can do this again,” he murmurs, the words vibrating through me. “If you want to.”
My fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring him to me. “Yes. Definitely, yes.”
“I left my number on the kitchen counter.” His hands cup my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks. “For when you’re ready.”
That he’s giving me time to reconsider and back out if I want to makes me tingly all over. As if I could want anything else after what we’ve shared.
“I’m ready now,” I assure him, snuggling closer. “More than ready.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “You need to rest and recover first.”
My bottom lip pushes out in an exaggerated pout I know he finds charming. “Will you call me, then?”
“I’ll do better than that.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll answer when you call.”
His certainty soothes the restless inside me. This isn’t a dismissal or an ending. It’s a promise of a beginning.
“When will you come again?” The question slips out before I can consider the irony of my phrasing.
His hand moves to the blindfold, adjusting it where it slipped. “Soon. But for now, I need to go.”
One more kiss, deeper than the last, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with a possessiveness that weakens my knees. Then he steps back, his warmth receding as he puts distance between us.
“Lock the door behind me,” he instructs, shifting into that protective Alpha mode that should irritate me but only warms me more. “And call your friend, Saint. He’s worried.”
The doorknob turns, the hinges creaking softly. “Goodbye, Elliot.”
“Goodbye,” I whisper, my fingertips pressed to my lips where the imprint of his kiss still lingers.
The door closes with a soft click, followed by the receding sound of footsteps down the hallway. I stand motionless, head tilted, listening until silence reclaims my apartment. Only then do my fingers reach for the blindfold, hesitating on the band.
Part of me wants to keep it on, to preserve the magic of these days where touch and sound created a world more intimate than any I’ve known.
But curiosity wins out.
With a deep breath, I pull the blindfold away.
Light assaults my eyes, bright after days of darkness. I blink, my vision blurry and unfocused. Tears form, whether from the sudden brightness or emotion, I can’t tell.
My apartment takes shape, along with the evidence of his presence here in the second mug drying in the rack by the sink, the folded blanket on the back of the couch, and the lingering of his pheromones in the air.
It’s strange seeing these physical traces after experiencing him only through touch and sound for so long.
The notepad on the kitchen counter draws my attention, and my heart rate doubles. I move toward it, my sock-covered feet silent, and my fingers tremble as I reach for the pad.
Neat, precise handwriting fills the top sheet. A ten-digit phone number with a name written above that stops my breath.
Sebastian.
My GentlemanX gave me his name, and I can’t wait to say it to his face.