—15— Wyatt
Wyatt
Diego’s stunned eyes hover in front of my face.
“You want me … to do what now …?”
Okay.
I’ll be the first one to admit.
I don’t recognize the person lying on this rug underneath the beautifully confounding puzzle that is Diego Valdez.
Because five minutes ago, I would have died before I’d ever let the words I just said slip out of my mouth.
But here we are.
I’ve cranked my libido up to the speed of light.
And I can’t keep blaming the thunderstorm room.
I’m just done pretending I don’t want this.
I’m starved for the kind of affection only someone like Diego is daring enough to give me.
He’s the first person who hasn’t treated me like I’m as fragile as the flowers I tend.
He’s damned near breaking me on this floor ten times worse than he did on my front porch.
Or maybe I’ve been the one holding back all this time.
Maybe I came completely undone when Diego said: “You.”
Like a key falling into the lock, I opened.
And now I’m telling Diego to stick his fingers inside me.
“Only if you want,” I blurt out.
His eyes haven’t left mine. He’s still trying to figure me out.
Honestly, so am I.
“I was just …” Am I backpedaling now? “… just caught in the moment. Or s-something.”
Diego’s hand lingers near my face. “Well, do you want me to … or not?”
“I’m …” I try to laugh it off, but I can’t even do that. The room is so dark, save for whatever light’s coming from the windows and the festivities outside.
Everyone in town is out there.
I can’t help but picture every last person I know on the planet crowding at the window looking in, wondering who the hell this horny guy on a rug is, because it certainly isn’t the sweet, adorable owner of the Wishing Blooms flower shop.
And what would Cissy McPherson say?
Deflowering this ten-thousand-dollar rug?
Give or take a thousand. For all I know, it’s just some old rug passed down the generations with no value.
Ugh, why did that just make it worse?
“Wyatt …”
I look at him, coming back. “Sorry, I just—”
“I wanna do things with you.” He speaks confidently, though his voice is low and quiet.
It takes me by surprise. “I wanna make you crazy. Make you moan again. Make you react. Anything that doesn’t involve those plastic smiles you put on for everyone else to tell them how fine you are when you and I know damned well you need more than what they’re giving. ”
Distant music is playing now. I hear the bass.
Then muffled, faraway cheering.
“You think I haven’t done this before?” he asks me.
I stare at him. “I have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Apparently a lot more than you think.”
I’m suddenly picturing Diego seducing ten guys a day. Taking his auto shop customers into back rooms to “check their oil”. The sharpness in his eyes right now, revealed only by the light from the window, tells me a thousand stories without words.
Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.
This doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s got needs. And he’s done things before. And he wants to get me off. To do something I like. To make me moan.
And … “Did you just call my smiles plastic?” I ask belatedly.
His big hand glides up the side of my body, casting electricity everywhere. It takes a lot of effort not to already let out that moan he wants so much. “You want me to put some fingers in you? Does that do it for you, Wyatt? That what you want?”
We’re just two men right now.
Two men with needs.
In a room.
Alone.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t smile. He takes those same fingers I just sucked on and puts them in his own mouth, working them over. I watch. His eyes stay on mine the whole time.
Then he slides them out. Slips them down my underwear.
Between my cheeks.
And to my hole.
I gasp.
He doesn’t just try to force them in. I realize instantly that he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He teases me down there with the finesse of someone who’s experienced, knowing exactly how to move his fingers, listening to my every reaction.
I have no choice but to give in to him completely, drop my jaw and rock my eyes back with the way he so expertly drives me crazy.
But the more he teases me, the more I relax down there, too.
Coming undone in a way I’m not sure I can articulate.
I never saw myself as an uptight person. Quite the opposite, actually. But the more he teases and tortures my hole, the more I feel these tight ribbons of stress and responsibility letting go one at a time. Snapping apart. Detaching. Releasing.
My eyebrows squeeze together as I try to convince my eyes to focus on his, to not keep rocking back.
The look on his face is so fucking intense. So focused on me.
So determined.
Like a machine with a given duty. Yet as warm as a man. Very warm. As if despite the cold, dark fireplace at our side, it might as well be fully lit and spitting embers between us.
The more he teases me, the more I relax.
And the more leeway his fingers get.
I barely notice.
He doesn’t stop. My body doesn’t fight him at all. I’ve become willing to let him do whatever he wants to me.
But the more I get into it, the less he holds back.
And his fingers are having so much fun down there.
Something must signal on my breathless face, because his lips descend on mine the next instant, and I’m a goner.
His hips grind into me, gently at first.
Then gathering force.
His fingers never stop.
He might as well be fucking me on this rug right now.
Except something tells me if he was, I’d be feeling it twenty times more than I am right now.
I’d be howling so loud, there’d be no mistaking what’s going on in this room.
We’d be the thunderstorm.
His lips move to my chin, still kissing, then to my neck, and to my chest. Now my breaths are turning into noises I can’t suppress.
His surprisingly slippery fingers work into me little by little, only as deeply as he can manage without real lube—which is more than enough, considering I’m already rock hard and losing my mind.
Then my cock slips out of my underwear.
He’s holding it.
His warm mouth closes around the head.
Slides down, engulfs its length.
“Diego,” I moan out, unable to hold it back.
He says nothing. How can he? His mouth is full of me, his soft tongue gliding up and down my cock with rhythmic perfection. I don’t know when I do it, but my hands are on his head, grasping whatever I can of his hair, buzzed so short as it is.
And he won’t stop.
Neither will my heart, racing with joy as he continues to show me a talent I wasn’t even remotely aware of him having.
Nothing outside this room matters.
I feel as big as a meteor hurling toward Earth.
Maybe with a similar inevitable countdown to doomsday, too.
And when I start to make some real noise, Diego’s other hand presses over my mouth, muffling it.
And he doesn’t know it yet, but that is the sexiest goddamned thing he could’ve possibly done.
And the closer I get to the edge, the less capable I am of doing anything about the bottomless moans I’m letting out through his squeezing fingers.
I try to tell him I’m close.
His fingers squeeze harder.
I buck against him, squirming, teetering on the absolute brim of ecstasy and chaos. I want this feeling to last forever, and yet I can imagine nothing else I desire right now than to come all over the place without a fucking care.
His fingers breach my lips.
I almost bite, groan, and manage, “Coming, coming, coming …”
A hand replaces his mouth. From the depths of my soul comes a moan that has no beginning or end, filling the enormous room from one corner to the other, maybe the hallways outside too, or the whole damned estate.
Every stroke of his hand sends me to the brink of insanity with how sensitive my cock has become.
I come so hard, so completely, and with such pleasure, I’m not even sure it’s over when I stop moving. I’m tingling everywhere.
Breath after breath, I come back.
I feel weightless and grinningly happy.
Diego’s face is hovering over mine when I open my lazy eyes. “What … was that …?” I get out, almost laughing.
He still doesn’t smile. He just stares at me with his head partly tilted to one side, like he’s studying me, drinking in the expression of unbound bliss on my face.
Finally, he says, “That’s what I wanted to see.”
I lift my eyebrows. “What?”
“The human trapped inside you.” He strokes the side of my face, stuck in a thought. He looks so uncharacteristically sweet for a second, despite the permanent iron-hardness of his eyes.
I decide to just go along. “You prefer the human …?”
“I prefer the guy who doesn’t apologize as much. Who’ll fuck my face because he wants to. Who would let me finger him ‘til he comes all over some rich lady’s rug.”
I’m about to laugh when that last part hits me. “What? Did I … Did I just …?” I try to sit up to look. It’s too dark to see clearly. “Did I just make a mess on the—?”
Distant laughter rings out from the hall. Someone’s nearby in the house. Their footsteps are coming closer.
We’re off the floor. I’m tripping over my pants as I’m pulling them up. The pair of us manage to get our clothes on but nothing buttoned or fixed before Diego whisks me with him behind one of the nearby curtains with a hand over my mouth.
We stare at each other.
Tightly wrapped up in our curtained cocoon.
His eyes in front of mine.
The footsteps come. The footsteps go.
Then it’s silent again.
We stay just like that, even long after the danger’s gone. Then he gently releases his hand from my mouth. A moment passes as I get lost in his eyes.
“Was I really fucking your face?” I finally murmur.
After a second, he smirks. “I don’t know. Were you?”
“I feel like I should reciprocate.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “By letting me fuck your face?”
I bite my lip, not exactly having meant that. “Or … whatever.”
“Or … whatever?” He shakes his head at me. “That sounds like a dangerous word to me. Got any idea what ‘whatever’ means?”
“Yeah. It means … It means whatever.”