10. Face-First #4
He looked. Ice-blue, wide open, watching my face while his mouth was stretched full around all eight thick inches of me, and the picture of it was obscene and I never wanted to see anything else again.
He took the curse as a challenge, I watched it land as one, something competitive sparking behind his eyes, and his fist wrapped the base of me, slick with his own spit, and started stroking in time with his mouth.
Two different pressures, two different speeds, the tight wet slide of his lips and the slower twisting grip of his hand underneath it, and my knees nearly quit on me.
"God—fuck, you—" A grunt tore out of me, louder than the walls deserved, and I caught it too late. "Sorry. Sorry, I'll keep it?—"
He pulled off me with a wet sound, breathing hard, lips swollen, and looked up.
"No. Don't stop." His voice had gone rough at the bottom. "I fucking love your reactions. Didn't know I would. Please."
And then he took me back down fast, faster than before, and whatever wall I'd been keeping between the noise and the room came down with it.
I stopped editing myself. I let the grunts come, the curses, his name, my hand tightening in his short hair while he worked me, and some distant piece of my brain wondered why in God's name I'd waited twenty-seven years for this, and answered itself just as fast: because it was supposed to be him.
His hands slid up and gripped my thighs. Squeezed. And then, eyes still up on mine, he pulled me toward him, pushed me back, pulled me in again, a slow deliberate rhythm that wasn't his mouth moving on me.
It was me he wanted moving.
"Yeah?" I barely recognized my own voice.
He hummed around me, yes, and his fingers dug in, and I started to move.
Slow at first, shallow, my hips rolling into the wet heat of his mouth while he held himself still for it, and when he moaned, when the vibration of it ran up through me, I gave him more.
Found a rhythm, steady, not hard, my hand cradling the back of his skull, fucking his mouth in the yellow light with his eyes locked on mine the whole time and low sounds spilling out of him around me like this was doing as much for him as for me.
And it was. I looked down the line of him, kneeling there with his knees spread on the cheap carpet, and his cock stood full and untouched, hard as rock, long and thick and curved up, a thread of precum already hanging from it, and he hadn't laid a single finger on himself.
The mouth fucking alone had him leaking.
I pulled out of him in one quick move. He blinked up at me, mouth open, chin wet.
"Stand up." My turn.
I put him where I'd been and went to my knees, and the carpet bit through the burn in my quads and I could not have cared less, because his cock was in my hand, hot and heavy, twitching at the first grip, and I'd been wondering about the weight of it since yesterday morning's dream.
I took him in my mouth and learned everything at once.
The stretch of my jaw around the girth of him.
The blunt smooth heat of the head sliding over my tongue, the taste of salt and skin and something that was only him, the way my lips had to work to keep my teeth covered, the sheer fullness, my mouth occupied to its edges and half of him still left over for my fist. I'd cooked fifteen years on the principle that you learn an ingredient with your whole mouth.
I learned him. Long slow pulls to map him, then faster once I had it, my hand twisting up to meet my lips on every stroke, spit running down over my knuckles, sloppy and getting sloppier and better for it.
Above me he came apart.
"Caleb—Caleb, holy—your mouth, your fucking mouth—" His hand landed in my hair, holding on, with no steering in it, and his hips made small helpless stutters he kept trying to control.
"How are you—fuck—we should've been doing this the whole—" A grunt cut the sentence in half.
His thighs went tight as cables under my free hand.
The curses came faster, my name stitched all through them, and I sucked him harder and hummed and felt the exact moment it got dangerous.
He pulled me off him by the hair, gentle and absolute.
"Too close." He was breathing like the bag work. "You do that ten more seconds and it's over, and I'm not—not yet."
He hauled me up and kissed me instead, deep, tasting himself, tasting me, both flavors in one mouth, and we stood there wrapped together in the middle of the small room, skin to skin the whole way down, hands wandering with no destination, his palms mapping my back and my ass, mine running the ladder of his spine, our cocks trapped hot between us, both of us slick and aching and in absolutely no hurry, and it could have gone on an hour.
Then he broke the kiss an inch. His eyes had a plan in them.
"I want to try something."
He backed toward the bed, watching me the whole way, and lay down on it wrong. On his back, crossways, and then he slid himself toward the edge until his head tipped back off the side of the mattress and hung there, upside down, his hair pointing at the floor, his throat one long exposed line.
Everything in me went tight at once. I knew what this was. I'd never done it, never come close, but the body knows some angles on sight, and my cock jumped against my stomach hard enough that he saw it happen from upside down and grinned.
"Come here."
I came. Stood over his hanging head, and his arms reached up and his hands found my ass and gripped, both cheeks, palms full, and the sound I made at that was embarrassing and I let it out anyway because he'd asked me to. He kneaded once, deliberate, and then he pulled.
I lined up and let him take me in.
The angle changed everything. His mouth, then further, his throat opening around me in a straight line where the curve of a kneeling mouth had always had to stop, and I sank in slow, watching, waiting for the flinch, the gag, the limit.
It never came.
All of me, buried, his lips against my base, his throat working around the head of my cock in a soft swallowing flutter, and no gag reflex. None. I stood there fully sheathed in him, not moving, wrecked by it.
"You—" I had to start over. "Do you even know you can do this?"
He couldn't answer with words. He answered with his hands, easing me back, drawing me in, setting the pace he wanted, slow, deep, tender, and I gave it to him.
Gentle rolling strokes into the tight wet heat of his throat, my hands braced on the mattress either side of his hips, his whole body laid out beneath me, and he took his own cock in his fist and stroked himself in rhythm with me, and moaned, and the moan buzzed through his throat and around me and I nearly went blind.
His moans got louder. Longer. His hand moved faster on himself and then, all at once, his hand fell away, flat to the mattress, fingers spread, and he was moaning around me with nothing touching him at all, hips lifting at nothing.
I knew what that was. He was close, and saving it.
I pulled out of his throat slow, a long slide he groaned at the loss of, and pushed his shoulder, and he got it immediately, sliding back up the mattress until his head came to rest on the bed proper, chest heaving, lips and chin shining, eyes gone nearly all pupil.
I climbed over him.
Hands and knees above him, my knees bracketing his shoulders, my cock hanging over his mouth and his over mine, and I sank down and took him deep at the same moment his lips closed back around me, and we both made the same sound at the same time, muffled in each other.