16. Jamie #2
I look up through my lashes, and relish the way his head falls back, the cords of his neck standing out as he pants.
His abs contract with every ragged breath, his dick kicks against my tongue.
I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard, and his hips stutter, a broken sound tears from his throat.
My free hand cups his balls, rolling them gently before tugging just enough to make him gasp.
He’s babbling now, my name a litany on his lips, his words dissolving into pleas and curses and incoherent begging.
“Jamie, fuck. . .I don’t. . .I don’t want to cum yet, please—” His voice is raw, his body strung tight as a bow, and I pull back just enough to let him breathe, my lips slick with him as I lick the precum from the corner of my mouth.
“Where do you want to cum, Blue?” I ask, my voice a dark purr, my fingers still stroking the sensitive skin behind his sac. His gaze snaps down to mine, heavy-lidded and drunk on pleasure, and the answer is written all over his face before he even says it.
“You.” The word is a whisper, a prayer, and it sends a jolt of heat straight to my gut. I rise slowly, my hands slide up his thighs, my thumbs brush the crease where they meet his hips. I stand, our bodies align, his dick spit-slick and throbbing against my stomach.
There’s no surprise in his words, not really. I’m vers and so is he, but he’s never outright asked to fuck me before. If he never did. . .if he only ever wanted me inside him. . .that would be fine. More than fine. Because the truth is, I’ll take him any way I can get him.
My fingers tighten around his waist, my thumb brush the dip just above his hipbone as I pull him back against me.
“You want to fuck me, Blue?” The words come out rough, low, but it’s not really a question.
Not when his body is already answering for him.
His pulse jumps under my touch, his hips roll back just slightly, like he’s testing the weight of me against him.
Cyaire doesn’t hesitate. He steps up onto the first stair, his bare feet silent against the wood, and I follow, my gaze locks on to his muscles shifting beneath his skin, his shoulders tense just enough to betray how badly he wants this.
He takes another step, then another, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the anticipation.
I watch every movement, every flicker of his lashes, the way his throat works as he swallows.
“Yes,” he says, his voice steady but threaded with something darker, something hungry. His eyes never leave mine, not even when he takes another step up, not even when his balance wavers just for a second. He trusts me to have him, to catch him, to follow, and I do.
My hands slide down to the waistband of my shorts, my boxers, and I pause just long enough to hook my thumbs into the fabric and push them down, stepping out of them without breaking stride.
The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his lascivious gaze raking over me when I kick the last of the fabric away.
“Oh fuck, yes,” he groans, his hand dropping between his legs to grip himself, giving his dick a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes my mouth water. He takes two more steps up, his thighs flexing, and I follow, my own body thrums with the need to touch him, to have him.
I stop just below him, close enough that my breath fans over his chest, close enough that he can feel the words more than hear them.
“I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow,” I murmur, my voice a dark promise.
“I want you to paint my body with your cum, rub it into my skin until all I can smell is you. Until all I can taste is you.” My hands find his hips again, my fingers dig in just enough to make him gasp as I take the last few steps up, crowding him against the top of the staircase.
Cyaire’s laugh is rough, disbelieving, his head shakes just slightly as he looks at me like I’ve just unraveled him completely.
“Jamie Maxwell,” he breathes, my name a curse and a prayer all at once, “you’re fucking filthy.
” He steps back just enough to let me push past him, his palm slapping against my ass as I move, the sting of it making me grin.
“Now go get your ass ready for me,” he orders, his voice all smoke and command, and fuck if I don’t love the way he sounds.
I don’t need to be told twice.
The years since I last let someone in like this, truly let them in, have left me rusty, my body tight with the kind of anticipation that borders on nervousness.
It’s not because I don’t want this, I do, I want it too much.
Cyaire isn’t just anyone. He is the last man I ever want to share myself with like this. This matters.
I turn the shower on hot, let the steam fill the bathroom and step under the spray.
The water sluices over my skin, loosening the tension in my shoulders, but my mind is still sharp, still focused on what’s coming.
On him. I take my time, washing thoroughly, my hands methodical as I run the soap over my chest, my arms, my thighs, everywhere he’ll touch, everywhere he’ll taste.
There’s no rush here, not when I know what’s waiting for me in that bedroom.
Not when I know how good it’s going to be.
I reach for the lube tucked into the shower caddy, the bottle familiar in my palm.
It’s been a while since I’ve needed it, but my body remembers the routine.
I slick my fingers, my breath hitching just slightly as I press one inside myself, the stretch burning in the best way.
I take it slow, working myself open, my free hand bracing against the tile as I add a second finger, then a third.
The water beats down on my back, the heat of it mixes with the heat pooling low in my gut.
I imagine it’s his hands on me instead of my own, his fingers, his control, the way he’d probably murmur filthy things in my ear just to watch me fall apart.
By the time I step out of the shower, my skin is flushed, my body hums with need.
I dry off quickly, barely bothering with the towel before I move toward the bedroom, my pulse thrums in my throat.
The air is cooler out here, raising goosebumps along my arms, but I don’t care.
All I can think about is the way Cyaire looked at me on those stairs, like he wanted to devour me whole.
The room is swallowed in darkness now, the only illumination coming from the faint, watery glow of the streetlights outside, their blue-tinged light spills through the half-drawn blinds and paints Cyaire’s skin in shifting shadows.
He stands there, just beside the bed, his body half-lit, half-hidden, like some kind of myth I’m not sure I deserve to witness.
His hand moves slowly over himself, his fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking with deliberate, maddening precision as his gaze rakes over me.
There’s no rush in him, no urgency, just the quiet, unshakable confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it.
Fuck, I can’t look away.
He’s beautiful. The way the world sees him, this polished, perfect, untouchable version splashed across screens and magazines, but I get him in a raw unfiltered way, where every breath he takes feels like it’s just for me.
His chest rises and falls, his muscles shift beneath smooth, dark skin, the faintest sheen of sweat already glistens along his collarbone.
I want to drop to my knees right there on the floor, want to crawl to him and press my mouth to every inch of him, worship him the way he deserves, but I don’t.
Instead, I stay where I am, my body alive with need, my voice rough when I finally manage to force out a single word.
“Please.”
It’s all I can say. The word hangs between us, heavy and thick with everything I’m not saying.
How badly I need him, how I’ve spent years trying to forget the way he made me feel that first night, how I never truly did.
This isn’t just about sex. It’s about staking a claim, about rewriting the past and carving out a future, about proving to both of us that whatever this is between us isn’t just some fleeting thing. It’s real. It’s ours.
Cyaire’s lips curve, slow and knowing, like he can hear every thought racing through my head.
His voice is low, rough at the edges, when he finally speaks.
“Get on the bed, baby. On your back.” His free hand lifts, gesturing toward the mattress, his meaning clear.
“I want to see your gorgeous face when I fuck you for the first time.”
First time. The words send a jolt through me, sharp and electric. Because he’s right, this is the first time and hopefully not the last time he’ll have me like this.
I move without hesitation, my body obeys before my mind can catch up.
The mattress dips beneath my weight as I climb onto it, the sheets cool against my overheated skin.
I lay on my back and lift my knees, my legs fall open in silent invitation.
The air hits me where I’m already slick and needy, and I have to bite back a groan at the exposure, at the way Cyaire takes in the sight of me laid out for him.
“Look at you,” he murmurs reverently. The bed shifts as he follows, crawling onto it with the kind of grace that only comes naturally to someone who’s spent a lifetime knowing exactly how to move.
He situates himself between my legs, the heat of his body radiates against mine, and leans over me, his breath warm against my lips as he reaches for the lube on the nightstand.
The click of the cap opening is obscenely loud in the quiet of the room.
“I’m ready—”