7. Adam
7
ADAM
T he moment our mouths met, it was over.
Sense.
Reason.
The world of glamour, power, and money at our backs blazing like a beacon.
There was nothing but two ill-suited men clutched together in the dark, taking from each other with silken thrusts of tongue and hot, seeking lips.
It might have started with feeding him smoke, feeding him my desire on a groan as angry as it was lusty, but it finished with what he gave me.
A head rush greater than the nicotine lingering on our breath, a freewheeling sense of calm like dropping from a plane before you pulled the chute.
Peace.
Amid the heat and ecstasy of our embrace, sank deep in the desire I felt boiling through every atom of my blood, I felt peace.
A clang from the kitchen had us both jumping apart like schoolboys caught looking at titty mags. Sebastian laughed softly, touching two long, strong fingers with furred knuckles to his swollen mouth. He looked at me with wonder and a kind of keen-edged intensity as though he wanted to take me apart and discover what made me tick.
I took an instinctive step back.
“I’ve never kissed a man,” he mused, then laughed again. “What a strange thing.”
“To kiss a man?” I croaked, voice ravaged with desire.
“To like it.”
I closed my eyes as he offered those words so simply. How could he be so nonchalant in the face of his rapidly shifting sexuality?
I still remembered the acute terror that had stabbed me through the heart when I’d had my first kiss with a boy in the back of the rectory at my estate. He’d tasted like communion paper, and his lips were as thin and dry as Bible parchment.
I’d thought I would die the moment our lips met, and when I survived, I felt such staggering guilt that I thought it was only a matter of time before lightning struck me down.
Not because I was religious.
I’d never given a damn about it.
But because I’d been born the son of a marquis, and no matter how quickly the rest of the world marched on into modernity, the peerage of England still had decades to go.
“Light in the loafers,” my father would say about Cousin Ernest. “A pansy little fag.”
“Hey,” Sebastian’s voice cut through memories and anchored me in the present. He was holding my forearm, his hand big enough to grasp the muscled width of it. “Was I that bad?”
A joke.
Bloody hell, he jokes .
“You seem very unperturbed about kissing your first bloke,” I said, and somehow, the words were accusing, which was preposterous because I liked kissing them too.
Something careful moved over his features, and his eyes pierced mine like golden pins. “You have a good mouth, and happily for me, you know how to use it.”
“No gay meltdown,” I prodded, feeling like I was coming out of my skin.
His head cocked slightly to the side, and a piece of inky hair curved over his head like a perfect comma. “I’d hate to steal your show.”
“If you’re so comfortable, why don’t you do something about this?” I dared, crudely cupping the painful erection caught beneath my trousers.
Sebastian’s brow spasmed as he looked down at me, then back into my scowling face. “You want to use me?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t like the way he said those words, so coldly, or the way calculation entered his previously warm expression.
But he was already stepping closer, pushing my sternum with the heel of his palm until I once again sat on the edge of the table. Without waiting for permission, he straddled my legs, clamping them tightly together so I felt trapped by his powerful thighs and the large body curled over mine. Panic singed the edges of my dark mood, and regret began to seep through.
“Sebastian––”
“ Stai zitto ,” he said and I knew enough Italian to heed his order to shut up.
His fingers were large, almost clumsy on the clasp of my belt. The sound of metal teeth unlocking was a loud rasp in the quiet night, but not as loud as my gasp when he tucked his tongue between his teeth and courageously reached into the placket of my pants to pull my cock into his hold.
“I wondered how heavy you would feel,” he admitted, tongue sweeping over his full bottom lip as he stared at his hand uncovering my shaft through my boxers. “Like tempered steel.”
Fuck .
How could he be so assured? I was the seasoned Dominant here, the one in control, the one with real goddamn experience.
But here I was, trapped on a table, nearly ruined by the simple clasp of his workingman’s palm around my swollen flesh.
“Stroke it,” I demanded, gathering the tattered remnants of my control to issue my imperious order.
The bastard grinned, shuffled closer to hide me from anyone potentially walking up the path back to the house, and gave me one strong stroke from root to tip. It wasn’t private enough. Normally, I’d never mess around with something so potentially catastrophic to my career as a public handjob from a man, but something about Sebastian scrambled my senses. I tipped my head back as I succumbed to the pleasure searing through me.
“Like that?” he asked, but it wasn’t innocent.
No, this bastard knew what it was like to be played with because he’d had countless women play with him and countless women to play with himself. Just because I was his first man didn’t mean he’d lost all his sexual confidence.
Yet something ached in me to know he was doing this with me, for me, even though I was being a surly cad. Something that went soft inside my chest knowing he trusted me to take him over to this unexplored side of his sexuality.
I’d never had a virgin before, and the honor of it was hard to ignore.
“Tighter,” I ground out through my teeth, then hissed as he obeyed.
It was difficult to know what to watch, his tanned grip on my straining cock and the way he smeared my precum over the tip or that ridiculously handsome face with the dark brows knitted together in concentration over molten yellow eyes.
“I’m going to make you come for me,” he told me in a low rumble I felt strike my bones like a tuning fork.
I was already close, almost unmanned by the simple grasp of his hand.
“It’ll be messy,” I warned because I’d always come copiously.
“Mmm, va bene . I remember,” he murmured, adding his other hand to the game he was playing with my dick.
He twisted one this way and the other that on the up stroke.
My brain whited out at the edges.
“Yeah,” he encouraged, watching my face with stark hunger. “I never knew pleasuring a man could be so powerful. To hold you in my hand and watch you quake… I have a wet spot on my trousers.”
My eyes darted to his black pants. He shifted, angling his hips forward so the strain of his erection and the wet spread of his leaking precum caught the light from the lanterns hanging in the tree overhead.
“Fuck,” I cursed, undone by the sight. My head fell forward onto his hard chest and the scent of him scorched through my nose down to my gut. “I’m going to come.”
“Do it,” he urged, moving fast, panting almost as hard as I was. “Come all over my hand. I want to see you make a mess of yourself.”
That was it.
That filthy order uttered in hot, lightly Italian-accented English set me off like a rocket.
My spine tightened, and I exploded in pleasure so acute it was almost agonizing. I clamped a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder as I shook and came and came all over his hand, all over my shirt and open trousers.
The only sound in the aftermath was the ragged rasp of my breath, the faint pound of Sebastian’s heart beneath his breastbone where my cheek was pressed, and the din of the party in the house behind us. As I slowly came back to myself, the closeness of our positions and the odd sanctity of the silence induced that old panic to take hold. Just as I tensed to move away, Sebastian shocked me.
His free hand moved up to run fingers through my rumpled locks, smoothing them back from my damp forehead.
Such a simple act, a sweet one especially from such a big, bold man.
It eviscerated me nearly as much as the orgasm.
I tore myself from his hold, noting he let me go easily, and stepped out from between his body and the table. I needed space like I needed air.
When I saw Sebastian dominate the stage at Finborough Theatre, I knew I had to have him. I would have done it for Savannah anyway, maybe, despite our vow to stop for a time. My wife and I liked to play, and it had been too long since our last dalliance. But sitting at the front of the theatre, enraptured by the way the great, big Italian man with expressive hands and seemingly 24-karat-gold eyes moved across the space and owned it, I’d felt viciously compelled to own him for myself. I’d never been the kind of Dominant who liked to collar his subs or mark them with spit, cum, or teeth, but my brain conjured images of that black hair caught tight in my fist as I craned his head back to bite at his neck, paint the skin above a thick leather collar with bruises as plum-purple as his lips.
I should have known then that the ferocity of my lust wasn’t safe.
But I’d never reacted to a man the way I did to him in these last few furtive moments caught together like fish tangled and flapping in the net of our shared desire.
An orgasm was supposed to be a release, not an undoing, so why did I feel so completely exposed?
My hands were almost too tense to do up my ruined suit pants, and I had to button my blazer to hide the stain of my ignoble orgasm.
Whatever moisture remained in my mouth was lost to the sight of Sebastian untucking his white shirt to use the tails as a towel for his cum-soaked hand. The bottom row of his abs stood in stark relief beneath his olive skin and the thick trail of black hair arrowing down into his groin where his erection strained against the zipper of his suit pants.
“Not bad for your first time,” I congratulated churlishly.
Fuck, I was being a right prick, but I couldn’t help it.
Those perceptive eyes were steady on me as I shoved my hands in my pockets and began to walk away with forced casualness.
“Practice makes perfect,” he said with a modest shrug before rooting his clean hand through all that thick black hair. It curled artlessly over his forehead, and I knew why Savannah liked him. I knew why Bobbi and Miranda had puffed up under his attention.
He was a star, and it had nothing to do with his celebrity or lack thereof.
It was because a man like Sebastian gave off so much light and energy, he was magnetic. Combined with his invasive gaze and curious mind, it made him a dangerous creature.
One who would eat me alive if I wasn’t careful.
“I prefer to play with my wife present,” I lied coolly. “But this was… nice. Enjoy the rest of your evening. Try not to let Miranda corner you in the kitchen. She’s been known to climb unsuspecting men like a jungle gym.”
Shadows coated Sebastian like a velvet cloak he wore too well. He stared after me implacably as I raised my chin in farewell and finally turned on my heel to walk around the side of the house to an unused entrance. As I took the stairs to the primary bedroom to change clothes, I resolved to make sure Sebastian Lombardi and I were not caught alone again.