Chapter 32 #2
“All of them,” he says.
“How lucky are you that I’m so slutty?”
“Lottery lucky.”
“Damn right. Yeah, I’ll wear your clothes. But you’ve got about ten minutes to get your shit together. I can’t reschedule this one.”
“Let me make last night up to you. I’ll skip the club.”
“You’re gonna make it up to me as soon as you get off the call. I made plans for tonight because I was pissed at you.”
“Of course you did. All right.” He pries our hips apart, releasing me from the leg lock. “One condition.”
“I shouldn’t allow it, but I’ll give you one—make it quick.”
“While I take this call, you do nothing. You lie on this couch in whatever I dress you in and take notes.”
“Lying down? That doesn’t feel very professional.”
“It’s what I want.”
“Then that’s what you’ll get.”
He dresses me in a tank and thin gray joggers and tells me he wants my feet bare. Meanwhile, he’s put on a dress shirt and another pair of pajama pants. On the coffee table next to the couch, he drops a few condoms and a tube of lube.
“Your hair,” I warn him as I get into position.
“I’m getting to it. They won’t start the meeting without me.
” He disappears into the adjacent bathroom.
When he comes out, he still hasn’t shaved, but he looks perfect.
I’d be willing to bet he used some eye drops, too, because he appears wide awake.
Settling behind his desk he fires up his screen and logs onto the meeting with the link I sent him.
I open up the notes app on my phone and stare at him until he looks over at me. He gives me a faint nod of approval and begins the meeting.
* * *
Gibson locks the office door while I stare at the condoms and lube. My dick plumps behind the thin sweatpants, as eager as the rest of my body for whatever comes next.
He hasn’t fucked me since our scene in his club, and I haven’t begged—much.
The first time really did a number on my asshole, and the bruises on my ass were no joke.
I hope this means we’re trying again. Frotting is great and all, but it’s not the same as feeling him move inside me—to the degree that he can.
I run a hand over the back of my neck, the memory of the burn making my hole twitch. I want to ask if this is a scene, but I’ll know soon enough.
“I’d like you on your hands and knees,” he says in a low voice.
“On the floor, or…”
“The couch. Hands on the back, knees on the seat.”
I don’t argue or hesitate even though his delivery makes this feel like I’m at the doctor’s office. Once I’m positioned as instructed, I feel his hands on either hip, peeling the sweatpants down to reveal my bare ass. He makes a low noise as his hands caress my healing flesh.
“I don’t ever stop thinking about this,” he tells me.
My eyes close, and I bite my cheeks so I don’t parrot the words right back. Instead, I lower my face to rest on my folded arms, putting an arch in my back to present myself better.
“Christian…” he whispers.
He said my name like that at the desk earlier when I was being an idiot, and it felt so unfair then—like he was invoking our connection to use it against me—soften me toward him.
It reminded me how much I want him and how that want only multiplies and expands.
And now it makes me realize that I want access to all his time, which is an extreme desire and unlike me, but I can’t stop it anymore than I can stop the sun from rising.
“Relax,” he says with a few more gentle caresses. “I’ll be careful.”
It doesn’t sound like a scene. I hear the coffee table moving, and then I feel the press of his mouth on my hole—the heat of his warm breath gusting inside.
God, I fucking love this. I do relax, pressing my ass to his face and making a satisfied sound.
His kisses are careful and long, his tongue lightly circling my rim and barely penetrating.
It’s electric, slow, and I’m rock hard within a minute.
He takes his time as he eats me out at a pace that makes me wonder if this is all he has planned.
His hands knead my glutes, and his mouth soaks my hole, in no rush at all.
“Gibson…” I sigh as a spurt of precum hits the leather sofa cushion.
“So wet,” he murmurs, replacing his tongue with a fingertip. He traces the ring of muscle without overstretching it—lighting my body up with anticipation.
Moving in a half-circle, he massages the lower half of my rim, building pressure and stretching it over long minutes of drugging, repetitive motion that has my mind soft and blank and my body totally relaxed.
“Is this good for you?” I ask, worried he might be bored.
“I can’t have you swelling up every time I fuck you. I need you too often. I won’t even tell you how often because it’s embarrassing.”
I grin to myself.
“You’re tight,” he says. “Inside and out. These narrow hips of yours don’t give me a lot of space to work with.”
“Sorry…”
“Mm…no. Nothing to be sorry about. I like a challenge.”
“Do you know what you’re doing back there?”
“I know what I’m trying to do. No idea whether it’ll help or not.”
“I don’t mean to be so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” He replaces his fingertip with his mouth again and presses his tongue inside me. I groan at the more intense stretch, but my body is ready, and I groan when he curls and circles just beyond the rim.
I groan, shifting so I can wrap a hand around my cock. It throbs at the pressure I give it, but my strokes are slow and lazy, determined to be as patient as Gibson. I wrap my own lips around my forearm, moving my mouth in the motion of a kiss.
His next touch involves lube and two fingertips, still hyper-focused on my rim and applying more pressure. It’s all burn with none of the fullness I’m craving. It’s got me rocking my hips toward him, begging him without words to stuff my ass.
“Aren’t you hard?” I ask, bordering on desperate.
“I’ve been hard for an hour.”
“Fuck me.”
“I will. Patience, beautiful boy.”
My thighs shake, and I take a deep, fortifying breath. “I’m trying.”
“Does this hurt?”
“A little.”
“You need more or less?”
“More. Fuck. I need more.”
The sound of a condom packet ripping is music to my ears. I shudder so hard, my hand tightens around my cock, and I almost come.
I bite my arm, yank on my balls and manage to hold it off.
With a glance over my shoulder, I see that he’s naked from the waist down, his dress shirt open, his cock jutting up like a baseball bat as he rolls the condom over it. Our eyes meet, and he gives me a self-conscious half-grin. It makes my face heat. “I want you to sit on my cock,” he says.
“Now?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he replies even as he lathers himself with lube.
I shift my position, bracing my hands on the sofa cushions and lowering my toes to the floor.
While he holds me steady with one hand and aims his dick with the other, I stretch back until my hole meets his crown. “Mmph…” The sound escapes me—my anticipation as sharp as the pressure of him on my rim. I let myself adjust to the broad stretch by rocking back and forth on my hands.
“More lube?” he asks.
“Inside me,” I say.
“Hold still.”
I do, allowing him to stuff a finger full of lube deep in my hole. I groan, immediately needing more. “Fuck, yeah.”
“So fucking hot,” he breathes. “Christian, I need you.”
Those are magic words. Fuck, they do things to me I am not familiar with.
I sink down again, taking more of his length inside me, and gasping the moment his crown hits my sensitive prostate.
I play with the spot for a while, taking nothing more and nothing less.
He only gets thicker from here, and everything about this depth is so fucking good.
“How’re you doing?” he asks, voice strained.
“Fuck,” is all I say, and again. “Fuck.”
“Take your time.”
I massage that spot until I’m positive I’m about to come and then pull off him, taking a few deep breaths and walking myself back from the edge.
“Chris…I…Christian…” The need in is voice is a direct hit to my chest.
It’s a fuck it moment for me. Using my hands as leverage, I plunge back, impaling myself on his cock. Our shouts ring out in unison, but I don’t give myself time to think. It’s sharply intense, but my endorphins are flowing. I work his cock like I’m channeling a porn star.
His grip is light on my hips, allowing me full range of motion, and I use all of it, sliding up and down the thick pole of his cock, relishing the burn when my ass hits his lap and groaning with every stroke of his crown on my sweet spot. I swivel, I grind, I work myself into a dripping sweat.
“Easy—” he gasps. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“So good,” I argue, shaking my head. “You feel so fucking good.”
“Mmm…” he moans, like he can barely take it. It is a tight fit—genuinely feeling like my hole is choking his cock. Even I can tell I’m not stretching like a woman can, but the pain gets me off, too. I move faster, jerking my cock and relying more on my legs to keep me in position.
My body has a mind of its own—seeking him out with laser precision as my pleasure builds, sending liquid heat up my spine and down my legs, pressure mounting in my groin in need of a way out. “Close, close, I’m close…” I pant, now pounding his lap.
A growl rips from his chest, and he spasms inside me.
As he comes, he wraps his arms around my waist, holding me with his cock fully seated as it continues to throb and gush.
With two more strokes of my hand, cum shoots from my dick, spaying my chest as I milk myself for every drop.
My hole spasms around him, and he lets out a sharp gasp.
I can’t control it. My orgasm bleeds through every cell and muscle fiber. My brain goes offline, leaving only static and ecstasy, elevating my existence into a realm I’ve never visited.
And then, as the aftershocks begin, the burn in my ass returns, and my processing speed picks up, I’m positive I did, in fact, hurt myself.
“Fuck, you’re bleeding.”
Yeah, I kinda figured.
Damnit.
“Easy, easy,” he says, slowing me down as I try to rise off him.
“Sorry,” I tell him. Because I truly am. I don’t know if going slower would have changed the outcome, but still, he wanted to be careful, and I couldn’t manage it.
“Give me a minute, and I’ll get you taken care of.”
I stumble forward onto the couch, not realizing until it’s too late that my legs are useless. “Is it bad?”
“Not too bad. Lie down, and I’ll be right back.”
I watch as he stands, removes the condom, and ties it off before crossing to the bathroom. He returns shortly with his shirt off and a towel around his waist, a damp cloth in his hand.
He sits on the edge of the sofa, his hip against my outer thigh, and presses the cloth to my hole, holding pressure. It’s warm. I close my eyes, rest my head on my folded arms, and sigh.
“This is going to be a process,” he says.
“Apparently.”
“We’ll go slower next time. If…”
“Yes, Gibson. I want there to be a next time.”
His relief is evident in his next breath. “We don’t have to force anything if—”
“Hey,” I cut him off before he can spiral. “I’m willing to work on it.”
He doesn’t say anything for at least a minute, and when he does, his voice is thicker, and I realize I touched a nerve. “That means a lot to me.”
Because I’m me, and awkward comebacks are my brand, I quip, “I hear kissing it makes it better.”
“What the fuck are you doing to me?”
I don’t know, but whatever it is, I really like it.