Chapter Eleven
Grady
“Very ... very much so.”
Chet’s voice is barely above a whisper, but not quite a croak. I take his hand and hoist him up from the deck chair, smelling shampoo in his still-damp hair as he comes up to just under my chin.
“I’ve never ... never had someone offer themselves to me before,” I admit, taking him by the hand. It’s soft and damp and trembling, just like Caleb’s was that day so long ago, and yet? Never far from my mind.
“Well, I am,” he insists, leaning up on his fancy sandals with his pretty pink lips pursed for a kiss.
“Not here,” I murmur, dragging him gently inside, where the camera can no longer see.
“Paranoid much?” he mutters, clasping my hand in his own.
“You want a sex tape floating around out there?” I tease, sliding the sliding glass door shut behind me as we sink onto the living room couch as if we can’t wait another single moment to taste each other’s hot, willing flesh.
“Are you offering?” he mutters, curling up beside me as the leather creaks beneath his tight little body. His lips are damp and gently parted, his brown eyes wispy and hungry beneath his damp black curls.
“Let’s keep this private,” I insist, leaning over to kiss him hungrily. His lips are soft, like his hands. Like I know his cock will be stiff and hard in my greedy mouth. Like I know his tight little ass will be, reddening beneath my big, rough hand.
“I like the way you think,” he murmurs in my ear, tugging off my ball cap and running his fingers through my hair. “I like the way you feel. I like the way you make me feel, Grady.”
“How do I make you feel?” I grunt, tugging at his top before he bats my hand away and deftly peels away the three pearly white buttons until it falls open, revealing a smooth, pale, tightly chiseled chest. Soft pink nipples stiffen before my very eyes, begging to be sucked and licked and lapped at.
He clings to the back of my head as I do just that, savoring his slick, stiff flesh as he murmurs and moans and whimpers from my touch.
“Fuck, that’s good cowboy,” he mutters, almost absently, as if indulging in some private fantasy swirling around up there in his Tinsel Town imagination.
I let him. After all? Fucking a tight little city boy silly all week?
Has always been pretty high on my Fuck It List, too.
My hand drifts down his soft, fluttering belly, deftly tugging the drawstring of his linen pants wide open.
His cock springs free, stiff, slick, pale, and sturdy.
“Mmmm,” he mutters as I tug the pants free, and he helps, kicking them off until they nearly catch on fire, sailing past a candle on their way to the opposite side of the living room. “Fucking hell, you’re good at this.”
“You make it easy,” I insist, pressing him back into the couch as I sink to my knees between his pale, creamy thighs. “With a body like yours, baby.”
He leans back, spreading his arms along the top of the couch and spreading his thighs even wider. “Baby,” he murmurs, even as he readies himself to be serviced. “I said I’m yours. This ... this is my job.”
“I take care of what’s mine,” I growl, peppering one thigh with wet, thirsty kisses before kissing down the other. “And right now? Right here? I’m going to take such good care of you, baby.”
He nods, breathless, eyes wide and stiff, a six-incher standing ramrod straight out of his predictably tended bush. “I knew you’d have hair like this,” I mutter, dragging a thick forefinger along the skinny, satiny black landing strip leading straight to the base of his cock.
“Sorry to be so predictable, Cowboy,” he stammers uncertainly.
“Only thing predictable about you, Chet, is how fast I’m going to make you blast down my throat.”
He gulps, Adam’s apple throbbing as I wink up at him from between his trembling legs. “Jesus, Grady, I was just ... I mean...”
I ignore his protests, gobbling the tip as I taste the first of him, but far from the last. He is wet, the salty, tangy precum like the finest wine as I swallow his slick excitement.
He’s a verbal lover, not that I’m complaining.
Every lick up his satiny shaft earns a soft, low, primal murmur.
Every suck of his bulbous, leaking tip sends off a litany of hissing, imaginative curses.
His body is loud, too, trembling beneath my touch as I grip his knees to spread his legs wider as his thick, smooth sac dances along the dark leather seat cushion beneath him.
The only time he’s silent is when his eyes beg for permission to thrust, pump, and fuck my open mouth. I smirk around his skinny shaft, winking and trying to nod, but his erection is too stiff, forcing me to grunt like a pig in heat in reply.
He understands me anyway. Or maybe he was just pretending to ask for permission.
I don’t mind. This is what I wanted, after all.
This is what I’ve been craving all day, ever since he strutted into my office in his tailored slacks and stylish pullover, those veiny hands and wispy curls like catnip to this sex-starved cowboy who’s gone too long between trips to the dingy little gay bar two counties over.
I feast on his flesh, savoring every veiny inch as I make quick work of deep throating him until my thick, bruised lips are pressed tight against his throbbing mound.
He gasps at the sensation, heat, and damp desire enrobing his sturdy little prick.
The leather creaks beneath him as his ass shifts to thrust ever deeper as I smile at his boyish enthusiasm.
Fuck away, I want to tell him, but can’t. For obvious reasons. Fuck away and fill this hungry, desperate mouth with your seed.
His little body trembles as I shift gears, hands sliding from his knees to grip the couch cushion on either side of his dimpled little ass.
The new angle is bolder, sexier, giving us both easier access to the pleasure we silently crave.
His eyes widen as ours meet across his sweat-slick body.
His are slightly panicked, as if unprepared for the velocity of my seduction, nor the enormity of my desperation.
I wink and set about unraveling him, slurp by slurp, grunt by grunt, thrust by thrust.
It doesn’t take long. Not at this angle. Not at this pace. Not this night, our first, but hopefully? Not our last. “Jesus, Grady, I ... I’m...”
I ignore him, gripping the couch cushion harder as I gobble him to the core, holding him in place as he thrusts and grunts and ruts until at last I feel his release, as urgent as my own insatiable need.
I gulp at its volume, thick, ripe, hot ropes of desire pumping down the back of my throat as I swallow his seed as quickly as he can spill it.
I blink sweat from my eyes, his softening cock still wedged deep as I watch him endure a whole body tremble, a ripple of aftershock surging beneath his taut, pale flesh, rolling gently like the waves of desire unspooling beneath his skin.
When he blinks his eyes open to find me watching, he smiles shyly, and I know.
In that moment, I know it’s so good he’ll never want another man’s mouth on his cock again.
I wink and let him slither, pink and soft and creamy, from my smacking lips.
Mission accomplished, I think as I rise to kiss him, bruised lips slick and wet with his seed as he hungrily tongues my tonsils to drink deep of his own thick jizz.
When he’s had his fill, Chet sags back against the couch, sticky, sweaty, sated.
Our eyes meet silently in the flickering candlelight reflected in his sweltering skin. “I’ve never,” he gasps before words fail him.
I sigh and stare down at his pretty little body. “You don’t have to say it, Chet. I know.”
“Cocky bastard,” he murmurs, undressing me with his eyes in a way that tells me I’m not the only cocksure fucker in the room. “Can you ... sit over there and take off your boots?”
“What?” I chuckle, surprised by the slyly commanding tone of his request.
“Yeah, I ... I’ve always wanted to watch someone do that.”
“Don’t they do that on your show every week?”
He nods, never moving a muscle as I sink against the nearest chair to do his bidding. What is it about man crushes bossing me around? I think to myself, grunting as I reach to wriggle out of my first boot. And why do I like it so damn much?
The leather beneath his sweaty bare ass creaks as he hauls his legs beneath him, sitting cross-legged as if we’re about to tell ghost stories around the crackling fire.
“Yeah, but there’s always like twenty people around when it happens.
Gaffers and grips, script supervisors and ADs, I just . .. want this. For myself, you know?”
I wriggle the boot free at last, dropping it with a leaden thud like I see them do in western movies.
He flinches delightedly at the sudden burst of noise.
I start to reach for my sock, and his whole body leans forward, “No!” he insists, our eyes meeting in the echoes of his outburst. “Leave ... leave those on, okay?”
“Kinky fucker,” I purr, wriggling my big toe in my dirty tube sock. “You’re not going to like ... sniff them or anything, are you?”
His nose wrinkles. His face scowls. Then he freezes. “Not ... not unless you want me to.”
“Why would I want that?”
“I don’t know,” he murmurs as I shift gears and reach for the other boot. “Some guys are into that kind of thing.”
“Are you?”
I admire the way his pretty little hands grip his pretty little feet. “I don’t know,” I admit, cock leaping inside my jeans at the thought. “Yours are pretty hot.”
“You think?” He glances down at them for a quick inspection. “I just got a pedicure,” he muses absently, as if to himself.
“Lucky me,” I tease, grunting and tugging the second boot free at last.
He licks his lips, nodding as I toss it next to the first. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You mean, something other than if I’m into feet or not?”
He smiles, charming me all over again. “Actually? It still has to do with feet.”
I wriggle my second foot. This tube sock is even dirtier than the first somehow. “This foot?”
“Both feet,” he insists as I sink back into the leather wing chair.
“Shoot.”
So he does. “Well, I mean, I couldn’t help but notice the soles of your boots. They ... you don’t wear them very often, do you?”
“Try never,” I insist. “They were a gift from Parker. For my eighteenth birthday. Said it was tradition in his family to get cowboy boots when you become a man. When I started to argue, he knew what I meant. Said he’d always considered me family.”
“But you don’t wear them?”
“I don’t like cowboy boots,” I tell him, crossing my legs and feeling the way my slick, hard cock rasps against my maroon boxer briefs in reply. “I don’t like cowboy hats. Or big belt buckles or saddles under my ass. I’m not a cowboy, Chet. Not a real one anyway.”
“But you wore them?” he croaks, standing abruptly. “Tonight. Why?”