18. Matty
Chapter eighteen
Matty
More thoroughly? What in the name of the holy gay flag did that mean?
My pulse pounded almost as thunderously as my dick twitched against Omar’s . . . oh, shit . . . I was twitching against his penis! I’d promised to be a good boy, to not go there, to keep my intentions—and my cock—well in check. Was Little Matty about to ruin everything? Was my inability to resist this man about to push us apart?
“Take control, Omar.”
His head cocked. “Control?”
“I, um, like it when a guy takes charge,” I said.
I could practically see steam coming out his ears as he processed what I’d just said. It looked like he was trying to understand or decide . . . or maybe he was figuring out exactly what “taking charge” meant. I wasn’t sure.
What happened next caught even me off guard.
His cock twitched, and he gripped the back of my head.
Oh, Lordie, I thought.
Our lips crashed together like cymbals signaling the exciting part of a classical piece.
Gone was Omar the polite, Omar the delicate, Omar the demur.
Some wild, crazed animal had taken his place, cloaked himself in Egyptian hotness and gnawed at my lips.
“Is this all right?” he asked, his voice a blend of hunger, aggression, and, oddly, doubt.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Make me yours, Omar. Take me.”
I was so here for this.
Strong fingers, far more powerful than I expected, yanked my hair, pulling my head back and exposing my neck. Before I could think, Omar’s teeth were diving into the tender skin of my neck. He didn’t pierce anything, but the force of his action sent a thrill of excitement and fear through my whole body. I’d been manhandled before, but never had a vampire sought to feed on me.
And there went his tongue.
Licking and, oh shit, his teeth . . .
I was usually in control. Even when riding a man into the sunset, I was on top, guiding our passion, steering the, um, steer.
But Omar hadn’t given me the chance. The sneaky little fucker had grabbed my sloppy curls and clung for dear life. I was helpless in his grip. Worse, my rebellious cock apparently thought this was the best thing ever, because I felt the first drips of leakage moistening my undies.
Oh, fuck.
His cock was rock hard, too.
He ground against me, firing rockets up my spine.
“Omar, God, wait.”
He stopped immediately, pulling back with a horror-stricken look in his eyes.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Were the teeth too much?”
I let out a nervous laugh.
Nervous .
When the fuck did I get nervous?
“No, Lord, no. That was hot. It’s just . . . are you okay? I don’t want to rush you or push—”
“I’m going to suck your cock until every drop of fluid stored in your balls is in my stomach.”
I stared down, trying to recognize the man who lay beneath me. He looked like Omar. His voice had that same sexy British accent. His bushy brows sure looked like my Egyptian boy.
But this aggression? Where in Southern hospitality had that come from?
“Are you okay with that?” he asked, though I could tell in his gaze he wasn’t worried I’d say ‘no.’
“I’m very okay with it, as long as you let me—”
“Not tonight. You had a long day, and I want to take care of you. Would you let me do that?”
Take care of me? Now I knew I’d died and gone to La La Land or wherever Barbie lived—or maybe that island where Gilligan was probably over a hundred now. There was no way I was still in our universe, in our time where men didn’t take care of anyone but themselves.
Holy crap, had I won the man-love lottery?
I hadn’t even bought a ticket.
“Matty? I want you to be mine. Give yourself to me, please.”
There. He said it again. Different words, same meaning.
He wanted to do this. With me . Holy shit.
“I, uh, Omar, God, yes. I want you in every way I can imagine, maybe a few I haven’t thought about yet. But you don’t have to take care—”
“Stop talking.” His fingers covered my lips. “Tonight, there are no decisions, no patients, no complaints or requests. Tonight, you belong in my arms, and I will care for you as my own. Understood?”
I nodded, unsure how to respond to something so . . . overwhelming.
Omar didn’t have to be told twice, his head lowering so his lips could resume trailing up and down my neck. I wanted this man. I’d wanted him from that first day, and here we were. Content and safe in his arms, I did the one thing I swore I would never do again.
I surrendered.
Omar melted into me. His lips, his teeth, his tongue, they teased and tested, tasted and toyed. By the time he moved down from my neck and snaked his hands up and inside my shirt, my eyes were closed and my world was at peace.
“Tell me if there’s anything you dislike, okay? Or if I go too far. I want to know you, everything about you.”
“I can’t decide if you need to stop talking or keep talking. That accent is killing me.”
He chuckled, and fingers clamped onto my nipple. I leaped off the couch and almost stuck to the ceiling.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Omar chided, then flipped us over so I lay on my back and he straddled my chest. When had he gotten strong enough to flip me like that? My scrawny little man was a beast.
The pressure on my nipple increased, and I fought against a whimper.
“You belong to me. Say it,” he commanded, pinching harder.
“I belong to you.”
“Use my name.”
“I belong to you, Omar.”
“Good. You’re doing very well, my Matthew.”
His Matthew? The room spun. Was that from the pain of his vise grip on a very sensitive body part or the words I’d dreamed he might one day say aloud? My mind reeled. I couldn’t think enough to decide or ponder or whatever-the-fuck else.
Ow! My poor nipple!
His head disappeared, following where his hand had just been, so his lips and tongue could caress and explore. The sudden shift from pressure and pain to warmth and tenderness made my nipple more sensitive than I’d ever felt. Every emotion, every feeling, every sensation I’d ever dreamed of flooded that one tiny piece of skin.
Then he bit down.
“Oh, holy fucking fuckery!” I shouted.
His teeth released me, his tongue replacing them with soothing slickness.
“Oh, fucking fuckery,” I cooed.
He snorted against my skin.
A moment, maybe an hour, later—I couldn’t tell—Omar’s head surfaced.
“Sit up so I can take your shirt off.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, grinning and moving to obey.
“None of that silliness. I am not in charge of you. I am your complement.”
My complement? Seriously? Who talked like that? Was he resurrected from some Victorian movie to land in my hospital and, well, on my dick?
Speaking of which, my undies were gooey and soaked.
And I didn’t fucking care.
I raised my arms above my head and let Omar pull my shirt up and over. He tossed it onto the recliner that stretched perpendicular to the couch, then laid back and stared up at me.
“What?”
“Shh.” His fingers silenced me again, then dropped to trail down my chest. His touch was so light, a feather’s kiss. My skin tingled and pimpled.
“I love your body,” he said, his skin now roaming my stomach. I didn’t have abs, at least, not ones I could see, but my stomach was toned, and I kept in decent shape. Omar seemed pleased.
“A happy trail.” He grinned, his finger teasing the tiny hairs that started an inch or two above my navel. “This makes me very, very happy.”
I stared down, still a bit in shock at how Omar had taken control and seemed intent on fulfilling his fantastic promise to care for me. The curls of his hair were so black in the dim light of the den. His jawline, covered in thick, inky stubble, called out to be kissed. Still, I resisted. I obeyed.
“Take your jeans off, please,” he said calmly, not dissimilar to how I might instruct a patient needing to be examined.
I rose off the couch, unbuttoned my jeans, and shimmied out of them, tossing them on top of my shirt on the recliner. I hooked a thumb in my boxers to pull them down, but Omar’s hand stopped me.
“Not yet,” he said. “Would you like to take my shirt off?”
He kept asking. Who was this man?
“Yes, please.”
He sat up and raised his hands, just like I had, over his head. A beehive of nerves buzzed and stung as I reached for his shirt. The smile he gave me when I leaned close calmed any fear that might’ve remained.
“Well, aren’t you a little fur ball?” slipped out of my mouth before my brain could check it in place.
Omar glanced down, and for the first time since we’d hit the couch, doubt crept into his eyes.
“I love it,” I said quickly, reaching down and running my fingers through his thick mane. “It’s so black.”
He shivered beneath my touch.
“I want it all,” I said, letting my fingers lose themselves.
“It’s all yours, my Matthew.” His hand reached up and covered mine, and we stayed there for the longest moment, holding each other, but not, on his couch.
“Let me get out of these pants,” he said. “Oh, I, uh, don’t wear underwear. It kind of skips a step.”
My eyes must’ve bugged out, because he burst out laughing. A heartbeat later, he stood before me, stark naked, the most perfect uncut penis rigid as a flagpole right before my face.
“He likes you, too,” Omar said, a playful gleam in his eyes.
“Oh, he’s fabulous. I think we’re going to be very good friends.”
Another laugh, like chicken soup for my soul, then Omar grabbed my boxers and ripped them down. I nearly stumbled and fell, but he caught me. And there, in his den, we held each other, naked, for the first time.
My precum smeared all over his perfect cock, and my own twitched, begging for what he’d promised would come next.
With a tender kiss, Omar dropped to his knees and licked my head.
An involuntary shiver snaked up my spine.
He grinned up at me, my cock still pressed against his lips.
Fuck me, that was a sight.
Then he opened his mouth, and my cock vanished.
“Oh, fuck,” I said as my head hit the back of his throat—and the man had a long-ass throat. I felt his lips diving into my bush, the skin under the tiny curls tingling with pleasure.
“Yum. You taste sweet. I should have known,” he said, winking.
The fucker winked. In the middle of sucking my cock. He winked.
Then his hand gripped my balls, pulled them taut, and my throbbing cock was teasing his tonsils again. His other hand rose to grip my base, while he bobbed up and down, slathering my shaft with saliva and heat.
My head spun with delight.
I gripped the back of his head and shoved myself into him. He gagged, but, like a champ, dove back down to take me even deeper. The sounds of slurping and licking, of my moans and growls, filled the room. Sweat began to bead on my forehead and coat my chest. A surge of need and want and lust consumed me, as Omar’s grip tightened and loosed, as his lips stroked and tongue licked. As his teeth teased and nipped.
Oh, fuck, his teeth.
“I’m . . . shit, Omar . . . I can’t—”
“Give it to me, Matty. Fill me up. I want it all.”
Oh, hell. Those words. My body spasmed. My mind blanked. The room spun.
“Oh, fucking shit, Omar!”
The first wave of pleasure shot down his throat, but Omar didn’t budge. He squeezed and stroked harder. He sucked longer. He willed cum out of me and into him.
I shot again and again, unable to look down or even open my eyes. My head rolled back, and I gripped my nipple, twisting where he’d pinched, adding pain to Omar’s pleasure.
He sat back, then guided me around to sit on the couch. My cock leaked a little, so he leaned over and sucked cum out of my hole.
“Where did that Omar come from? Where’s he been hiding?” I asked, exhausted and bewildered. I shivered again.
He grinned and ignored my question. “You taste like heaven.”
“Are you even real?” slipped out.
His smile widened. “Would you sleep with me tonight? I want to hold you.”
I stared, still not believing my fortune, and nodded at the man I hoped would hold me for much longer than one night.