Chapter 6 #2
He pulls back. Looks up at me. His mouth is slick and there’s a look on his face I haven’t seen before — not nervous. Not uncertain.
Smug. It’s fucking hot.
“You’re shaking,” he says, sounding quite proud of himself.
I protest. “I’m not shaking.”
“Your thighs are shaking, Sasha. I can feel them.”
“Shut up and put your mouth back on my cock.”
He grins. And then he stops waiting for instructions.
His hand slides from my shaft to my hip. He grips me there — firm, possessive, holding me still — and takes me deeper on his own. His jaw loosens. His rhythm evens out. He’s not following anymore. He’s leading.
“Aaron —” My voice cracks. Actually cracks. I haven’t had my voice crack during sex since I was seventeen.
He pulls back just enough to speak. “Don’t tell me to stop.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you to stop. I was going to tell you that if you keep doing that, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.”
He grins. Actually grins. With my cock against his lips. “Good.”
Then he takes me deep enough that I feel the back of his throat — and this time he doesn’t gag. This time he swallows around me, and the sound that comes out of me is not dignified.
Every time I groan he does it again. Every time my fingers tighten in his hair he goes deeper. He’s figured me out, and he’s relentless — the rhythm that makes my abs seize, the pressure that makes my thighs shake, over and over, his hand gripping my ass hard enough to bruise.
His other hand grips my other hip — both hands now, pinning me against the window — and he works me with his mouth, wet and messy, spit dripping down my shaft. The sounds fill the quiet suite.
I look down and nearly come from the sight alone.
His lips swollen and red, stretched around my cock.
His cheeks flushed. And between his thighs — his cock is pushing against his boxer briefs, untouched, the wet patch spreading so far the cotton clings to the outline of him.
He’s soaked through. Dripping. From having me in his mouth.
Fuck. He’s not doing this because I asked. He’s doing this because he’s so turned on he’s dripping, and nobody is touching him, and he doesn’t care. He wants my cock more than he wants relief.
“Aaron — look at me.”
His eyes open. Green, glazed.
“I’m close.” My thighs are shaking — he was right about that. “You don’t have to —”
He doesn’t pull back. His grip tightens on my hip. His mouth tightens around me and his tongue presses hard along the underside.
He wants this. He chose to stay.
My abs seize. My hand grips his hair. I try to warn him again and what comes out is — “ — Aaron — I can’t —”
I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t finish anything.
His name comes out of me low and broken and then I’m coming — hard, pulsing into his mouth, my back arching off the glass.
My cock throbs against his tongue. Once.
Twice. He swallows and I feel his throat working around me and my hips jerk forward.
A third pulse, a fourth, and I’m gripping his hair and the windowsill and making sounds I’ve never heard come out of my own mouth.
He chokes. Pulls back half an inch. A trail of spit and come connects his mouth to my cock.
He takes me in again — determined, stubborn, because Aaron Kelly does not quit anything — and swallows the rest. The small sound he makes — surprised, not disgusted — sends one last aftershock through me that buckles my knees and has me slamming my hand against the glass to stay upright.
He keeps working me with his mouth, gentle now, until I’m shaking and oversensitive and easing his head back.
He sits back on his heels. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Looks up at me.
His mouth is red. His cheeks are flushed. His hair is a gorgeous mess from my hands. He’s smiling. Not grinning — something quieter. The smile of a man who just found out he’s good at something he was terrified to try.
I did that. He did that.
And between his thighs, his cock is still hard, still untouched, trapped in those soaked boxer briefs. He stayed on his knees and swallowed and he’s looking at me like he wants to do it again.
I pull him to his feet and walk us to the bedroom. I guide him onto the bed, onto his back, and lie beside him.
“You did so well.” No teasing now. “Aaron. You were perfect.”
His eyes open. The vulnerability in them hits me harder than I’m ready for.
“I didn’t know if I was doing it right.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.” I trace my thumb along his cheekbone. “I have been with people who have done that many times. None of them made me sound like that. None of them made me shake. That was you.”
I lean down and kiss him — tasting myself on his tongue — and let my hand drift down his stomach toward his waistband.
“Your turn,” I murmur. My palm presses against his cock through the cotton. He’s still hard. Aching. “Let me make you come.”
He catches my wrist. “No.”
I stop. Search his face.
“I should go.” The armor, sliding back. He sits up, scanning for his clothes. “It’s almost three. If someone sees me —”
“Stay until I fall asleep.”
He pauses. One foot on the cold marble.
“I fall asleep quickly. Ten minutes. Fifteen. You can count — I know you enjoy counting things.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “Fifteen minutes. Then go.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he says.
He lies back down. Stiff, on his back, six inches between us. I pull the blankets up and shift closer — not touching, but close enough.
He doesn’t move away.
After a minute, his hand finds mine under the covers. Not laced together. Just palm to palm.
His breathing slows. His body softens, degree by degree. Jaw unclenching. Hand going heavy against mine.
I curl my fingers around his and hold.
I stay awake as long as I can. Which isn’t long enough.