Cameron #2
“Nothing,” I insist once more. He does not believe it.
“Nothing,” Atticus repeats. “Then why are you trembling? This doesn’t feel the same as when you shuddered against me the other night.”
I flush, my eyes dropping to stare at his broad chest. I’m embarrassed, ashamed by my own desire, and on the verge of genuinely falling apart.
“Just… a hard morning,” I supply, giving him some bit of honesty and hoping it’ll appease him.
It does.
“Aw,” Atticus coos softly, his fingers beginning to rub a soothing pattern over my jaw. I start to melt in his grasp. “A hard morning? Are you sad and tired? Are you lonely?”
I can’t tell if his tone is biting or kind; Atticus is so impossible to read. But he’s not wrong, and it kind of feels nice to admit it to him.
Nice and embarrassing.
I nod anyway.
“I’ll help you, then, sweetheart,” he murmurs, brushing his nose along mine just as he did in Cassie’s guestroom.
My breathing stutters to a stop, and I tense up, anticipating his touch. “I don’t think—”
“Shh. I thought I made the decisions now?” Atticus is smiling, just slightly, as he stares down at my mouth.
I… I did agree to that, didn’t I? I thought he meant for that one night, but honestly, forever doesn’t sound so bad.
“Right?” Atticus presses.
“R-right,” I agree, my knees feeling less stable the longer he holds onto me.
How the fuck did I end up here, trapped against Atticus again, when all I wanted to do this morning was run in peace? To hide away and cry?
But if I’m honest… kissing him again does sound a bit better than crying alone.
“That’s it, Cam,” Atticus purrs. “Let me handle it. Just listen. Can you listen?”
It almost feels as if he’s talking to a disobedient child. A puppy he’s training. Yet it calms me just the same; it makes me feel at ease.
“I can listen,” I pant out, watching his hazel eyes stare at my lips as if they’re his next meal.
And Atticus groans, a low and possessive noise that sends electricity straight through my veins.
“So good for me,” he praises, his fingers sliding up my jaw to cup below my ear, his nails dragging over my scalp and tangling my hair.
And holy shit, I want to be good. I want him to be happy with me and handle all the hard things. Like this very moment, the one I was drowning in before he appeared from thin air.
A barely audible whine leaves me, embarrassing and needy.
Suddenly, his lips are on mine, devouring and hungry.
I fall to pieces immediately, my lips parting and breathing in the scent of him—something earthy and full of cinnamon and fucking desire.
His fingers dig into my scalp, his other hand lifting to run up and along my side, my hip, and over my waist.
He’s licking into me, eating up my panting and my whining, turning me into a little bitch in heat, desperate for his taste and his attention.
And the best part? I don’t even have to think. Every move, every lustful second is dictated by him and him alone. He guides my mouth, pins my hips with his, and devours me whole.
“I know what you need,” Atticus whispers against my lips. “I can feel it radiating off of your warm, hard body.”
“Atticus,” I groan, trying to rub myself against him but unable to with how he has me pinned.
So fucking embarrassing.
“God, that sounds good,” he sighs. “Say it again. Say my name.”
“Atticus,” I whisper, my eyelids slipping shut as his warm fingertips slip under my hoodie to drag over my stomach.
“Mmm, I’ll give it to you. You’ve been so good today that I think you deserve it.” He mouths my jaw, hot and wet. “You need to get out of your own head.”
It’s not a question; he’s telling me what I need. What will help me. And fuck, getting out of my own head doesn’t sound so good right now.
And yet, as I sag against him, I can’t help but wonder what he’s getting from this. Sure, I’m being distracted from my fucked up relationship with my mom and saved from being alone in the aftermath of her anger, but what does Atticus gain by licking my skin and tasting my desire?
He seemed to be interested in Cassie before, so what has changed? Why did he kiss me at the party, and why is he here now, taking away my agony and turning it into something hot and needy?
“You’re thinking too much,” he states.
“No, I’m not,” I insist.
Atticus’s fingers grip my chin once more, tilting my head until I’m staring into his bright eyes. He looks… suddenly displeased.
“I’m starting to realize you love to lie,” he observes. “Maybe I should give you something more honest to do with this mouth of yours.”
Annnnd that goes straight to my dick. It was already hardening and reacting to his hands, tongue, and words, but now it’s completely rigid, waiting for his next command.
“Like what?” I whisper, my trembling hands gripping the bark I’m leaning against.
“On your knees,” Atticus demands gently, his hands falling away.
He does not push me down, does not guide me. Atticus fully expects that I will comply and obey on instinct alone.
And he is absolutely correct. I fall to my knees, the bare skin of my knees digging into the dirt and the leaves.
Atticus looks like a fucking god towering over me, his brown hair windblown and his toned body tensed with coiled power and desire. His pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling.
“Pull me out,” he instructs, his hands loose at his sides as he stares at me.
Am I going to do this? Am I going to touch another man’s dick, right here, out in the open? My mind is reeling, and my own want is battling heavily with what I know is expected of me, what will amount to being another dirty secret I hold close to my chest and hidden from the world.
And how would I even start? I hardly even remember the last blowjob I received.
Atticus’s large hand tangles into my hair, his eyes softening slightly. “Stop drowning in your own panic,” he commands. “It’s doing you no good. You want this; I can see it in your eyes. You want to obey.”
I really want to obey. I want him to tell me I’m good again; I want to think of nothing but him and how he smells, how he tastes. But is it going to crush me when we’re done?
I guess it really doesn’t matter. I’ve known from the moment I saw him as a little boy that I could never deny him.
With shaking hands, I blindly reach out, never taking my eyes from his. I fumble with his joggers, pulling them down his thighs and then repeating the process with his briefs.
I can see it in my peripheral when his dick springs free, but I don’t look. No, I keep my eyes locked onto his.
I need him to tell me what to do now. For him to decide, to dictate, to take away the panic and uncertainty, and let me turn everything else off.
“Good. Have you done this before?” he asks, and slowly, I shake my head. “Even better. Let me teach you.”
Any fear I had revolving around the logistics of this act disappears, and I lean into his touch—his hand still nestled in my hair—and release a long, steady breath. Atticus twitches.
“Take me in your hand. Just the base,” he instructs, voice now resembling gravel and need.
My eyes drop to his straining dick, the head swollen and wet. He’s a soft pink color, which is a sharp contradiction to the size of him. Thick and long, and showcasing a few prominent veins that have my mouthwatering.
I’m not much smaller than him, if at all, but paired with his words and his formidable personality, he seems larger than life.
Tentatively, I wrap my hand around the base of his shaft. His skin is soft yet incredibly hot to the touch. The realization that this beast will be in my mouth in just a moment hits me like a truck, and I’m lust-drunk, so desperate for it to slide against my tongue.
When my fingers tighten slightly, Atticus hisses.
“Good job, sweetheart,” he says, rocking his hips just slightly so that his angry red tip brushes my lips.
A soft whine leaves me, the taste of his precome intoxicating as I lick my bottom lip. It’s salty and musky and so insanely manly that I want to combust, to die, to experience this forever and not hate myself afterward.
“You like how it tastes, Cam?” Atticus asks, taking hold of my wrist and using my hand to rub himself over my lips again. “Does it drive you crazy?”
It does. It so fucking does, and I’m going slightly out of my mind waiting for him to tell me to put it in my mouth. To suck him down, choke, cry.
“Lick me,” he says instead, and I’ll take what I can get, so I run my tongue flat over his head like a needy dog, over and over again. “Ahh, yeah, baby, just like that.”
He rocks forward again, rubbing his leaking slit over my waiting tongue.
I let him, enjoying the smooth slide of his skin, how his brows are furrowing, and his hand is tightening in my hair.
“Suck on it,” Atticus finally instructs, and I’m quick to get to work, desperate for it.
I pull the head of his dick into my mouth, suckling as my tongue runs around his crown, feeling the edges of his tip and how it flares out from the length of him.
Intoxicating.
“Mind your teeth,” Atticus tells me, his chest heaving, his words slightly pinched.
I can’t seem to focus too hard on where my teeth are, though. Not when I’m sucking down his arousal like I’m starving and have missed all three meals of the day. I want to taste him some more; I want him to feed me until I’m full and satisfied.
“You’re so greedy for it, sweetheart,” he says, but it sounds full of admiration and pleasure. Like this pleases him. “Take more of me, massage me how I know you want to.”
A deep moan leaves me, vibrating up the length of his shaft as I suck down another inch, hollowing my cheeks. Atticus makes a low sound, hips bucking and feeding me another inch.
With half of him in my mouth, I stop sucking and run my tongue all over him, rubbing into his skin and feeling each pulse and jump of his hard dick.
“Use your hand on what you can’t take.” At this demand of his, I begin pumping the bottom half of him with my closed fist, using my own leaking spit as a lubricant. “Yess, that’s good. So good. I love that you listen so well. That you want to listen.”