CHAPTER 22
MATEO
TIME FREEZES RIGHT before someone puts their mouth on your dick for the first time.
The universe holds its breath. Your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape. Your skin prickles with anticipation so sharp it borders on fear.
Now add a blindfold across my eyes. Add six-foot-something of professional athlete positioned between my trembling thighs. Add the mind-bending reality that eight weeks ago, I would have sworn on my academic future that I was straight.
"You still with me?" Groover asks, his voice rumbling up from between my legs, his breath scorching against my already burning skin.
"Technically," I manage, fingers twisting the sheets until my knuckles ache. "My body's here but my brain's about three seconds from total system failure."
His laugh vibrates against my inner thigh, sending a jolt straight to my cock that makes my back arch off the mattress. Without sight, everything else amplifies to almost unbearable intensity—the calloused grip of his fingers digging into my hipbones, the damp heat of his breath dancing across my most sensitive skin, the whisper of expensive sheets as he shifts his weight between my spread legs.
"Just feel," he says, thumbs pressing harder into the hollows beside my hip bones, pinning me in place. "Turn off that brilliant brain for once."
I open my mouth to argue—because arguing is safer than surrendering—but his tongue strikes without warning, a hot, wet path from base to tip that transforms whatever clever retort I had into a strangled gasp.
"Fuck," I choke out, the sheets bunching in my fists as my body jerks under his hold.
"We'll get there," he promises, voice dark with intent. "One step at a time."
His tongue traces the same path again, slower this time, exploring every ridge and vein with deliberate precision. The wet heat of it sends electric currents racing up my spine, making my toes curl against the mattress. I bite my lip to hold back another embarrassing sound, but he must sense my restraint.
"Don't," he commands, punctuating the word with a firm squeeze of my hips. "I want to hear you. Every sound. Every reaction. Nothing held back."
Before I can process that directive, he takes me into his mouth—not gradually, not tentatively, but all at once in a single devastating motion that has me crying out, a primal sound I barely recognize as my own. The warmth of his mouth engulfs me completely, tongue pressed flat against the underside of my cock, creating a pressure so perfect it shorts out my higher brain functions.
Every nerve ending in my body seems to redirect all sensation to that single point of contact. His mouth isn't just hot—it's volcanic, molten, creating a vacuum of slick pressure that threatens to pull my soul straight out through my dick. His hands hold my hips in an iron grip, keeping me from thrusting up and choking him.
He pulls back slowly, so slowly I feel every millimeter of the retreat, his tongue tracing patterns along the way. When he reaches the head, he swirls his tongue around the ridge with devastating accuracy, finding the sensitive spot underneath that makes my thighs tremble with the effort not to completely disintegrate.
"Jesus fucking—Ansel—" The words spill out broken and desperate as he dives back down, taking me deeper this time, his throat relaxing to accommodate my length in a way that seems physically impossible.
The blindfold transforms me into a creature of pure sensation. No visual input, just the slick drag of his lips, the occasional scrape of teeth that sends sharp jolts of pleasure-pain straight through my core, the vibration when he hums around me in response to the stream of curses and pleas flowing from my mouth.
He establishes a rhythm calculated to destroy me—one hand wrapped firm around the base where his mouth can't reach, the other splayed across my stomach, feeling each shuddering breath. When that wandering hand slides lower, fingers ghosting over my balls before pressing firmly against the sensitive skin behind them, a sound tears from my throat I didn't know I could make—half-shout, half-sob.
"Ansel," I gasp, his name pulled from some primitive part of my brain that's reduced to single-syllable communication. "Fuck—I can't—"
He pulls off just long enough to rasp, "Touch me," before descending again with doubled intensity.
My hands fly to his head, fingers threading through his hair—shaved close on the sides, thicker on top. The texture grounds me, gives me something to hold onto when everything else feels unmoored. I don't guide or push, just grip and release with each bob of his head, tugging slightly when he does something particularly devastating.
That small tug pulls a groan from deep in his chest, the vibration traveling through my cock and up my spine like lightning seeking ground. Through the haze of pleasure, I register the hungry sounds he's making, the eager movements of his head, the way he presses his own hips against the mattress seeking friction. The realization hits me with startling clarity: he fucking loves this. Not tolerating it, not going through the motions—actively, enthusiastically enjoying the act of reducing me to incoherent desperation.
His tongue maps every sensitive spot along my shaft with scientific precision, returning to each place that makes me gasp or jerk with the dedicated focus of someone creating a detailed pleasure atlas. When he finds a particularly responsive spot, he works it mercilessly until I'm panting and writhing against his grip.
"Your taste," he pulls off to murmur, voice wrecked in a way that sends another spike of arousal through me. "Fucking addictive."
He dives back down before I can respond, taking me deeper than before, until I feel the head of my cock hit the back of his throat. Instead of gagging or pulling back, he swallows around me, throat muscles constricting in rhythmic pulses that drag a broken cry from my chest.
Heat gathers at the base of my spine, coalescing into pressure so intense it borders on pain. My legs shake, muscles straining as my body chases the release building just out of reach. Each slide of his mouth, each flick of his tongue, each hum of approval around my flesh pushes me closer to the precipice.
"Close," I warn, fingers tightening in his hair. "Ansel—fuck—I'm going to—"
He pulls back just enough to growl, "Give it to me," his voice absolutely destroyed in a way that sends another bolt of arousal through my system. "Want to taste you. Want to feel you come apart."
Those filthy words in that ruined voice snap the last thread of my control. He descends again, deeper than seems humanly possible, and then his throat contracts around me in a deliberate swallow that obliterates every coherent thought in my brain.
Orgasm crashes through me with violent intensity, every muscle locking as pleasure erupts from my core and pulses outward. I cry out—his name tangled with curses and pleas—as my body arches off the mattress. His groan vibrates around me as he swallows, throat working to catch every pulse, the sensation prolonging my pleasure until I'm genuinely afraid I might black out.
His hands shift to my thighs, gripping hard enough to anchor me as aftershocks rock through my system. He continues to work me through it, tongue gentling but still moving, drawing out every last tremor until the pleasure crosses the line into overstimulation.
"Stop," I gasp, fingers tapping frantically at his shoulders. "Christ—too much—can't—"
He pulls off slowly, pressing a biting kiss to my inner thigh that makes me yelp, before I feel him move up my body. The blindfold slides away, and I blink rapidly against the dim light as Groover hovers above me—lips red and swollen, hair sticking up in every direction from my grip, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown of his irises.
"Well?" he asks, voice sandpaper-rough in ways that send another aftershock through me.
I stare at him, physically incapable of forming coherent words. My body feels liquefied, muscles turned to warm jelly, skin buzzing like I've touched a live wire.
"I think you killed me," I finally manage, each word requiring separate concentration to form. "This is definitely the afterlife. Nothing that good happens in the real world."
He laughs, but uncertainty flickers beneath it, something vulnerable in his eyes seeking reassurance.
"Good death?" he asks, aiming for casual but missing by miles.
I grab him by the neck, yanking him down until our mouths crash together. The taste of mu cum on his tongue should be weird, but it just adds another layer of filthy intimacy to the moment. When we break apart, I bite his lower lip, pulling a groan from deep in his chest.
"Fucking transcendent death," I tell him, tracing my thumb along his jaw, feeling the rawness there from his exertions. "Like, completely rewired my entire understanding of pleasure death."
His eyes fall half-closed and he releases a prolonged exhale. My attention drops to the obvious bulge still trapped in his jeans, pressing urgently against my thigh.
"Your turn," I say, hands moving to his waistband with newfound determination.
He catches my wrists. "You don't have to."
"Shut up. I want to," I insist, stomach flipping with nerves despite my confident tone. All my research, all those hours of reading and watching, and I'm still terrified of disappointing him. "I just might not match your Olympic-level skills."
His expression softens. "Nobody's keeping score. We do what feels good, nothing more."
"But you're still—" I nod at his obvious erection straining against denim, creating a tent in his jeans that looks almost painful.
"Oh, I'm definitely interested," he confirms with a wicked grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "But there are plenty of options." He guides my hand to his zipper, the metal hot beneath my fingertips. "Let's start with the basics and work up to advanced techniques."
The care in his voice, the way he respects my inexperience without making me feel inadequate, loosens something tight in my chest. No pressure. No expectations. Just exploration at my pace.
I nod, opening his jeans with hands steadier than I expected, the rasp of the zipper oddly loud in the quiet room. He lifts his hips to help as I tug the denim down his thighs, revealing black boxer briefs stretched taut over his erection. The wet spot at the tip makes my mouth go dry.
"Damn," I breathe, not meaning to say it aloud.
Groover chuckles. "Is that a good ' damn ' or a terrified one?"
"Definitely good," I assure him, tracing my finger along the outline of his cock through the thin cotton. His sharp intake of breath emboldens me. "Just... processing the reality versus the theory."
"And how's that going for you?" His voice has dropped an octave, strained around the edges as I continue my feather-light exploration.
"Theoretical knowledge has its limitations," I admit, hooking my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, hesitating just a moment before pulling them down to join his jeans around his thighs.
His cock springs free, heavy and flushed dark against the defined muscles of his stomach. The sight of him—thick and impossibly hard because of me—sends another aftershock of arousal through my system.
"Just so you know," I warn as I wrap my fingers around impressive thickness with more confidence than I feel, "I'm a quick study. Graduated top of my class."
His laugh transforms into a strangled hiss as I stroke him experimentally, his entire body tensing beneath my touch.
"Fuck," he groans, hands fisting in the sheets.
"Too tight?" I loosen my grip immediately, suddenly worried I've hurt him.
"No, god no," he rasps, hips lifting slightly to follow my retreating touch. "Perfect. Just... been thinking about this for so fucking long."
The raw admission sends heat flooding through me again. "You have?"
"You have no idea," he confesses, eyes locked on mine with startling intensity. "So fucking long..."
He trails off as I resume stroking, finding a rhythm that makes his head fall back, throat exposed in one long, gorgeous line. The vulnerability of that position—this powerful athlete baring his throat to me—feels significant in ways I'm not equipped to analyze right now.
His skin burns against my palm, thick and heavy in my grip. I watch his reactions with focus, cataloging each twitch and gasp, learning exactly what pressure and speed makes his breath catch and his hips stutter.
When my thumb swipes over the head, gathering the moisture there, his whole body shudders. I repeat the motion, fascinated by the way his abs contract in response, by the flush spreading across his chest.
"Like this?" I ask, twisting my wrist at the top.
"Fuck—yes—exactly like that," he gasps, eyes squeezing shut as I repeat the motion. His hand covers mine suddenly, adjusting my grip slightly, showing me exactly how he likes to be touched. "Just a little tighter—there—god, yes."
The intimate instruction, his hand guiding mine, feels almost more erotic than the act itself. I'm learning his body with his guidance, being taught exactly how to take him apart. When his hand falls away, I continue the rhythm he showed me, rewarded by the stuttering movement of his hips and the strangled sounds spilling from his throat.
"Tell me what else you like," I urge.
His eyes crack open. "Your other hand," he breaths. "My balls—just cup them. Gentle pressure."
I follow his instruction, reaching between his legs with my free hand, the weight and heat of him filling my palm. His reaction is immediate and visceral—back arching off the bed, a curse tearing from his throat that would make a sailor blush.
Power surges through me—not dominance exactly, but an intoxicating rush watching this controlled, confident man fall apart under my touch. I increase the pace, transfixed by the sight of him coming undone. His muscles flex and strain beneath golden skin, muscles contracting with each stroke as he approaches the edge.
"You're so fucking hot like this," I blurt out, the words bypassing my brain-to-mouth filter entirely. "I could watch you forever."
"Mateo…" His voice is tight with impending release, one hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to leave marks. "About to—"
I tighten my grip, working him faster, mesmerized by the way his chest heaves and his thighs tremble. "Do it. Let me see you."
His entire body goes rigid, head pressing back into the pillows, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. A sound rips from his throat that's half-growl, half-shout as he comes in hot pulses over my hand, cum spilling through my fingers, painting his abs with streaks of white. There’s this raw vulnerability on his face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a wordless cry, every pretense and defense stripped away.
It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed.
I keep stroking him through it, loosening my grip as the pulses subside, watching in fascination as his body gradually relaxes, muscle by muscle, until he's boneless against the mattress. Only when he makes a small sound of oversensitivity do I release him, oddly proud of the masterpiece I've created—this powerful athlete completely wrecked by my hand.
He throws one arm across his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he pants after a moment, words slurring slightly. "That was..."
"Acceptable?" I suggest, purposely understating.
He peeks at me from under his arm, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Pretty fucking spectacular for an amateur. Natural talent."
I sigh, relishing what’s already becoming a memory as Groover scrambles off the mattress and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a warm washcloth. The careful way he cleans us both, the thorough attention to detail, feels weirdly more intimate than having his mouth on my dick.
When he slides back into bed, he pulls me against him without hesitation, arm draped over my waist, chest pressed to my back. His breath warms the nape of my neck, his body solid and secure against mine.
"Stay," he says, not a question.
I close my eyes and smile against his skin. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”