Chapter 3 #2
His eyes travel down my body. Slow. Deliberate. He takes his time — my chest, my stomach, lower — and when his gaze reaches my cock, his lips part.
“God, Aaron.” His voice is rough. “Look at you.”
The way he says it — almost worshipfully — makes my dick twitch against my stomach. A bead of wetness wells at the tip and slides down the side. He watches it happen.
“You’re already so hard,” he murmurs. He wraps his hand around me and my hips jerk off the bed.
His grip is firm and warm and nothing like my own hand in the dark — his palm is rough with calluses, his fingers long enough to wrap all the way around, and the pressure is perfect.
“And wet. All of this just from kissing?”
I can’t answer. My head tips back and my mouth falls open and a sound comes out of me that I’d be mortified by if I could think.
“That’s it,” he says, stroking me slow and deliberate, his thumb catching the wetness and spreading it down the shaft. “Just feel it.”
His hand twists and my back arches. He does it again and my thighs start shaking. He leans down and kisses me while his hand keeps moving — long, steady strokes — and I’m moaning into his mouth, sounds I’ve never heard myself make.
“You’re so responsive,” he says against my lips. “Every little thing I do. I love it.”
He shifts down the bed. His lips drag across my chest, my ribs, the clenching muscles of my stomach.
Lower. His mouth traces the line of my hip bone, his breath hot against my skin, and then he’s right there — his lips brushing the head of my cock, and I can feel myself leaking against his lower lip.
He holds there. One second. Two.
“Sasha — please —”
His mouth closes around me and my spine bows off the mattress. Wet, hot, the pressure of his tongue working me as he takes me deeper, his lips sealed tight. The breath leaves my lungs in a raw, broken sound that fills the quiet penthouse.
He pulls back slowly, his tongue dragging along my shaft, and then sinks down again.
The sensation of his mouth on me is overwhelming — every ridge of his tongue, the heat, the way he swallows around me when he takes me deep.
My hand goes to his hair — those dark blond waves — and my fingers wind through them, gripping onto him.
“Oh God —” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “That’s — I can’t —”
He pulls off just enough to speak, his lips still brushing the tip. “You can. You’re doing so well.” His breath is warm against the slick, sensitive skin and I shudder. “Tell me what feels good.”
“Everything. All of it. Your mouth — fuck —”
He takes me deep again and finds a rhythm — steady, relentless, his hand working what his mouth can’t reach.
His other hand grips my hip, holding me down, and every time I try to thrust up he pins me there, controlling the pace.
I can hear myself making noises I didn’t know I was capable of.
Broken moans, sharp gasps, his name over and over.
My legs are trembling. My stomach muscles are clenching. The heat is building at the base of my spine, gathering, tightening, and I can feel it coming like a wave about to break.
“Sasha — I’m going to — I’m close —”
He doesn’t pull back. His grip tightens on my hip and he takes me deeper and sends me over the edge.
The orgasm tears through me — hitting at the base of my spine and detonating outward, every muscle seizing, my back arching, a sound ripping from my throat that I can’t control.
I feel myself pulsing into his mouth, hot and hard, and he swallows around me, working me through every wave, his mouth soft and relentless until I’m shaking and oversensitive and pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He eases off. Presses a last, soft kiss to the inside of my thigh.
Then he crawls up beside me, propped on one elbow.
His lips are swollen and his waves are wrecked from my hands and he’s still hard — I can feel him pressing thick against my hip through his underwear — and the fact that he’s not asking for anything, not pushing, just lying there looking at me with that patient expression, makes my throat tight.
“Okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah.” I manage. My voice is wrecked. “Okay.”
He grins. “Better than okay?”
“Don’t push it.”
He laughs, and his breath is warm against my shoulder, and for five seconds I let myself just lie here next to him. His body radiating heat against mine. The city glowing outside the windows. His heartbeat against my arm.
Five seconds. That’s all I give myself.
The panic hits.
I sit up too fast. “I should — I need to —” I’m already off the bed, scanning the floor. Underwear, jeans, yanked on with shaking hands. Shirt inside out. I don’t fix it.
“Aaron.” He hasn’t moved. Patient, unhurried. “Breathe.”
“I’m breathing.” I’m not. I’m pulling on shoes without socks.
“Give me your phone.”
I stop. “What?”
He holds out his hand. Still calm.
“Your phone. I’m putting my number in.” His eyes hold mine. “I want to keep in touch.”
I hand him my phone. His thumbs move across the screen and he holds it up. A new contact: just the letter S.
“Now give me yours.”
My hands are shaking. I take his phone, type in my number, hand it back. He glances at the screen, then at me, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
“Texting only,” he says. “No phone calls. Too risky — someone overhears a call, picks up my phone at the wrong moment, and it’s a problem for both of us. Text, I can control. I can delete.”
“Okay. Texting only.”
“Good.” His grin widens. “And don’t disappear on me, Aaron Kelly. I know you’re already planning to.”
“I’m not —”
“You’re already planning the three days of silence. Don’t.”
I nod. I make it to the hallway. The elevator is at the end of the corridor. I press the button. Press it again. My shirt is inside out and I’m not wearing socks and I can still taste him.
“Aaron Kelly.”
I spin around. Sasha is leaning in the doorway of the penthouse, shirtless, arms crossed. He’s got that body that looks effortless but isn’t — the kind you get from skating six hours a day since you were twelve.
“Go back inside,” I hiss.
“When you text me tomorrow,” he says, loud enough to carry down the hallway, “I want you to tell me exactly how many times you thought about what just happened.”
“Are you insane? Someone is going to hear you.”
“It’s the penthouse floor. There’s no one up here but us.”
“That’s not the point — you can’t just — this is exactly the kind of thing that —”
The elevator dings.
The doors slide open.
Diego Vasquez is standing inside, phone in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. He looks at me — shirt inside out, no socks, face flushed. Then he looks past me to Sasha, shirtless in the penthouse doorway.
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.