25. Adrian #2
He slid down my body and unbuckled my belt, tugged open my jeans, shoved them and my boxer briefs down to my thighs with an eagerness that suggested he'd been thinking about this for a while. Then he stopped, bit down on his own lip. A small giggle escaped—and then like he couldn’t contain it, he started shaking with laughter, his forehead pressed against my hip, his whole body trembling with it.
“What the fuck, Nicky?” I struggled to pull my underwear back over my very exposed, very hard situation.
“I'm sorry—I just wasn't expecting—”
“Is this some kind of joke to you? You think you can—”
“Your pubes are pink.” He tilted his head, eyes bright with tears of laughter. “And heart shaped?”
I looked down. Oh. I had forgotten I'd done that. “Yeah, I was bored and I haven't found a waxer in Toronto yet.”
“Well, it caught me by surprise.”
He was still laughing—that open, unguarded sound that made it impossible not to smile back. Music I could listen to over and over again. Even with my dick out and my dignity in tatters, hearing Nicky laugh like that—free and surprised and genuine—was worth every second of humiliation.
Then he wrapped those perfect pink lips around my cock and sucked like he had a point to make.
My brain liquefied.
The wet heat of his mouth, the pressure, his hand working in time with the bob of his head—I was embarrassingly close to losing it within minutes.
Because Nicky wasn't just good at this. He was devastating.
Golden hair falling across his forehead, blue eyes glancing up at me through his lashes, those lips I'd been obsessing over stretched around me.
I'd spent weeks telling myself the attraction was just physical. Just my dick reacting to a pretty face attached to an infuriatingly perfect body.
Looking down at him now, I knew that was bullshit. Had probably always been bullshit.
I grabbed a fistful of beautiful golden hair and pulled him off my aching length before I could embarrass myself completely. “Uh uh. Hate fuck, not hate blowjob.”
He sat back on his haunches, looking at me expectantly. That haughty little tilt to his chin—even now. Even with swollen lips and wrecked hair and the taste of me still in his mouth. Prince Nicky, even on his knees.
I launched off the bed, kicked off my jeans and underwear—heart pubes and all, fuck it—tossed my shirt somewhere behind me.
Rummaged through my suitcase until I found the condoms and lube I'd stashed in the inner pocket.
Not that I'd been planning on hooking up with anybody but I was always prepared.
And thank fuck for horny and prepared Adrian.
When I turned back, Nicky was still grinning. Lounging against the pillows, naked now, that amused little smile playing on his lips.
I crawled over him, pinned his wrists above his head with one hand, and watched the grin falter.
“You think that was funny?” I asked, voice low.
“I think it was—”
I kissed him. Hard enough to swallow whatever smartass thing he was about to say. When I pulled back his eyes had gone dark, the laughter replaced by something hungrier.
“You know what else is pink?” I asked, flipping him onto his stomach and pulling his hips toward me. “My tongue.”
Yeah, he was perfect here too. God really did play favourites.
He'd told me to kiss his ass earlier, so technically I was just following his instructions.
I dipped my tongue against that tight little hole and the sound he made shot straight down my spine.
I lapped at him again and he whimpered—actually whimpered, high and needy and shocked, like nobody had ever done this to him before.
Not laughing now, was he?
“Mmm.” I spread him wider, ran my tongue in a slow circle. “Everything about you is so pretty, Prince Nicky. Even your moans. Especially your moans.”
Then I stopped teasing and really went to work.
Fucked him with my tongue until he was practically panting, fingers twisted in the sheets, thighs trembling, that careful composure blown to pieces.
Only when he was begging—not with words, Nicky was too proud for words, but with his body, pushing back against my face, making sounds that were going to ruin me for anyone else—did I pull back.
I slicked up one finger with lube and pressed inside him slowly.
He tensed, then exhaled, then opened for me so beautifully I had to press my forehead against his lower back and breathe through it.
I worked him gently—one finger, then two, then three—taking my time even though every cell in my body was screaming to go faster.
Curled my fingers and searched until I found the angle that made his hips jerk off the mattress and a sound tear out of him that was more animal than anything.
“There?” I asked because I wanted to hear him say it.
“There—God—don’t stop—”
I didn’t stop. Kept stroking that spot, slow and deliberate, watching him come apart one layer at a time. His back was arched, his face buried in the pillow, his hands clawing at the sheets. Every sound he made was chipping away at my self-control and I was running out of it fast.
I rolled on a condom with shaky hands. Lubed myself up. My cock aching with how badly I needed to be inside him.
“Tell me what you want, Nicky.” I lined up but didn’t push in. Just held there, the head of my cock pressed against him, waiting. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Adrian, please,” he moaned into the pillow.
“Use your words. You always have the perfect words.”
He turned his head, cheek pressed to the pillow, and looked at me over his shoulder with those blue eyes—blown dark with desire. The last of his composure burning away.
“Fuck me,” he panted. “Fuck me so hard I forget anyone who came before you.”
Christ.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Coming from him—from careful, measured, perfect Nico Fontaine—they were the filthiest, most devastating thing I'd ever heard.
I pushed in without warning.
We both groaned when I bottomed out. He was tight and hot and perfect, clenching around me like he never wanted to let go. And he was already rocking back against me, hips rolling, silently demanding more.
So I gave him more.
I gripped his hips and yanked him towards me in one fluid motion. He gasped at the manhandling, hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets, and I held him there, exactly where I wanted him, and fucked him hard. Just the way he'd asked.
My fingers dug into his flesh hard enough to leave marks. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, punctuated by his gasps, my groans, the creak of the bed frame that was absolutely going to get us a noise complaint.
“Harder,” he gritted out. “I can take it.”
“I know you can.” I pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, and he cried out—loud, raw, nothing like the measured golden prince. “But I want to hear you beg for it.”
“Fuck you.”
“You are.”
I shifted the angle—one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, pinning him flat, the other gripping his hip to control the pace—nailing his prostate with each thrust. He didn't stand a chance.
His back arched beautifully, spine curving under my palm.
His fingers clawed at the sheets. He made sounds I was going to hear in my dreams for years—broken, desperate, beautiful.
“Adrian—please—”
He turned his head and I caught his mouth—messy, breathless, more teeth than technique. I braced myself on one arm and reached underneath him with the other, wrapped my hand around his neglected cock, and stroked in time with my thrusts.
And then something unexpected happened.
His hand found mine—not the one stroking him, the one braced on the mattress beside his head. His fingers slid between mine and held on. Tight. Like I was the only solid thing in the room.