Chapter 36
Nick
Well, Jesus fuck.
I knew that Tristan was going to look sexy as hell in the outfit I picked out for him, but I wasn’t prepared for just how sexy that would be.
He’s fucking gorgeous, lying blindfolded on the bed, legs spread and waiting for me.
“I see you found what I laid out for you,” I say, finding my voice as I close the door. “Good boy.”
“I can’t wait for you to use those toys,” he says. I can hear his arousal in his voice.
“Gotta get your tight little hole ready for my cock.”
We both know it’s not going to be easy getting my cock in there, and we’re both relishing the challenge.
I make quick work of stripping off my clothes. I love the feeling of being fully naked. I like the power it gives me, the pride in my body, a tool I’ve carefully crafted to complete very specific tasks.
The bed is soft and cool beneath me as I climb on. Tristan shifts, squirms, feeling my presence even though he can’t see me because of the blindfold. His freckled chest lifts as his breath catches.
I love how his body responds to me.
Mine responds just as strongly.
My cock is so hard it almost aches. I need to be inside of him. I need to claim him with my cum, but I force myself to be patient.
I’m going to savor this moment fully, lavish his body with the worship it deserves.
I’m going to use my mouth and my hands and my cock to show him just how precious he is. Precious in ways I don’t think I could use words to describe right now.
I don’t fully understand what I feel or why I’m feeling it. I know, deep in my bones, in my very blood, that Tristan is special.
I start with his left foot, catching it firmly in my hands, raising it to my mouth. I kiss the sole of his foot, tickling him with the brush of my lips. I kiss each of his beautiful toes, sucking them, all the while stroking my own cock.
Then I move to his right foot, because it’s just as beautiful, just as worthy of my affection and praise, and then I work my way up his legs, kissing them, licking them, massaging the tight muscles of his calves, and finally spreading his thighs so wide he gasps.
“Your legs are tight, baby,” I croon. “You need to do a better job of stretching.”
“Sorry, sir,” he pants, his head tipped back in pleasure, his breath shallow. His cock is so hard it’s trying to break free of that pretty little thong I bought for him.
“Don’t worry.” I bite a soft kiss into his inner thigh. “I’ll help.”
I press his thighs further apart, earning a whimper from him.
With his legs spread like this, I have a fucking fantastic view of him, of his muscular thighs, his tight ass, spread open for me.
At his beautiful, tight pink hole, a sweet, puckering rosebud just ready for my mouth.
The soft, delicate hair between his cheeks, which smells so deliciously of him.
“Hold yourself open, baby,” I say, and guide his hands to his thighs so that he can keep his legs spread for me.
My hands will be otherwise occupied.
I take his cheeks firmly in my hands, spreading even further, giving myself a full, tantalizing view of his hole. I pull the strap of the thong to the side and snap it against his hole and taint a few times, each time drawing a delicious gasp from him.
That’s right.
Right now, his hole is mine. And I get to use it however I want.
I spit on that perfect rosebud, wetting it and whetting it for my touch, my taste.
And then, all sacred patience fulfilled, I taste him.
If by some cruel twist of fate, I was only allowed one meal for the rest of my life, it would be very difficult for me to choose between something that, I don’t know, actually has sustenance and calories and could keep me alive, and Tristan’s perfect hole.
Truthfully, a diet of Tristan Hole only might be enough to keep me on this mortal plane. It’s that fucking fantastic.
I don’t go easy on his hole.
I use my lips, my tongue, my teeth. It’s like I need to devour him.
I’m rewarded for my efforts by his moaning, his squirming, his gasping, and swearing. He is an incoherent, babbling, lust-drunk mess beneath my mouth, and that’s without me even touching his cock.
And I’m not even close to being done yet.
I rip the thong off him—literally rip it off him, tearing the lace to shreds and casting it aside. It was hot as hell on him, but now it’s in my way.
His balls are full, heavy, waiting to be released. They deserve my full attention, my worship.
I take them gently in my hands, cup them, massage them, and kiss them, taking them into my mouth, sucking, licking, lavishing.
And as I savor the sweetness of his balls, I take two fingers and begin to massage his hole.
He whimpers, moans, and begs for more as I begin to finger him, hooking and stroking my fingers inside him, and, at the same time, sucking his balls.
“Fuck, fuck,” he moans.
“You taste so fucking good,” I say, pressing my nose into his well-trimmed bush and inhaling the sweet scent of his skin, the faint lingering saltiness of sweat.
He smells like—
Like—
Mine.
I softly bite the skin of his groin, just hard enough to make him hiss, to leave a faint pink mark. My mark. I kiss the mark, lick it, claim it as mine.
His cock, so close to my face, is thick and hot and rock-hard. An oh-so-tempting stream of precum dribbles down his rosy pink head, and—I swear it’s pure impulse—I lick it up.
As I take his cock in my mouth, two of my fingers still buried knuckle-deep in him, he lets out a soft, utterly blissful whimper.
And in that moment, I know.
I know something that I might’ve known for a while now, and have just been doing my best to ignore.
I know, beyond any doubt, beyond any sense of reason, or any respect for pre-negotiated rules, that I am falling for Tristan Cavanagh.