16. Beau
Beau
Iwent to Clark’s place, a little nervous about what I had in my overnight bag. We hadn’t really discussed it, but I was hoping he would enjoy what I had brought for him.
He opened the door in those sharply pressed khaki shorts and a stretched-out T-shirt, a soft smile on his face.
His brows met in the middle. “Why do you look so nervous?”
I held up my overnight bag. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”
A smile lifted his lips as he let me in. “Did you bring me a present?”
“In a way…” I said, trying to sound mysterious.
Only then did I realize that the lights were flickering. “Are those candles?” I was looking through the slightly ajar door to his bedroom.
He nodded, seemingly proud of himself.
“You’re not the only one with plans for tonight,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
I narrowed my eyes, even though I couldn’t help the goofy smile on my face. “What are your plans?”
“I don’t know; what are your plans?”
I unzipped the overnight pack and pulled out the modest dildo I’d overnighted.
“Wait, did you bring me a training dick?”
“If a trial ride makes sense, a trial dick definitely makes sense.”
Clark laughed, taking the dildo from my hand, examining it closely. “To be honest, I’m kind of glad you thought of this.” He went a little red. “I mean, I prepared. Just in case.”
I drew my chin back. “How?”
He went even redder. “I went back to The Mercantile. They really do have everything.” I slapped my hand over my mouth as Clark shook his head. “I can never show my face there again.”
I lost it. “Oh my God—Margot…”
“She has a real poker face, that one.”
“I can’t. I just … nope. Can’t.”
He pushed at my shoulder. “Shut up, you big tree. Besides, I probably won’t even be able to fit it in.”
I stopped laughing and cupped his cheek until he looked at me. “Hey, now. Even if you can’t get comfortable with my size, I have been very, very happy with what we’ve been doing.”
His expression went from worried to grinning like the Mona Lisa in a second. “Oh, I like a challenge,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
He was always finding ways to surprise me, this city boy from Chicago.
“Speaking of challenges, what’s your surprise?” I asked, needing to distract myself from the soft feelings I was having.
“I know you said it’s just your favorite porn category, but something tells me you would enjoy … a little edging.” He held up a bottle of massage oil.
My jaw swung open. “Wait. You’re gonna edge me?”
“As it turns out, I have transferable skills.”
“You mean straight skills that you can transfer to gay?”
“More or less,” he answered, grinning.
So very proud of himself.
“Is that why you lit the candles? For the ambiance?”
“Yep. I’m gonna romance the fuck out of you.”
He was joking, of course, but it was as if he’d taken my heart in his fist and squeezed. I loved the idea of being romanced by him. And I really, really shouldn’t.
But there was no universe in which I was I gonna reject what he had to offer.
“There are a couple of places we can do this,” he said, slipping out of his T-shirt.
“We can sit on the couch. I can make you sit on a kitchen chair and stand behind you. But I think the coziest version is if I sit on the bed against the headboard, and you sit between my thighs, and let me go to work on you.”
“Can you even reach your arms around me?” I asked, gesturing between us.
He wrapped his arms around me. “I can almost touch my elbows.”
“Why are your arms so long?” I kissed him. “Freak. Take me to your bed.”
With that, he grabbed my hand and led me to the bedroom. He already had towels placed over the bedspread, as if he knew this was where we’d end up.
We were barely through the door when he dropped his shorts. He wasn’t wearing underwear.
“You, sir, are a minx.”
“Your minx,” he murmured, kissing me.
I really needed him to stop doing that, but I’d glug a gallon of cold grease before telling him that. Instead, my hands went to his ribs, tracing his body down to his hips, over his ass, pulling him tight against me.
We kissed until I was hard, and I stripped down.
He tucked a couple of pillows under his ass before settling against the headboard, then spread his legs and patted his thighs.
I felt a little goofy as I crawled onto the bed.
Ungainly, at the very least, as I turned and fit myself—barely—between his thighs.
I lay back against his chest. Breathed.
I was still much, much bigger than him, but his lanky arms easily reached around me. He squeezed my chest and belly and, most importantly, my cock.
“You comfortable?” he asked, kissing my ear.
“Super comfortable.” I checked my watch. “How long do you think you’ll be edging me for?”
“Long enough to make it count, but short enough that neither of us ages in the interim. Sound good?”
“Very.”
He slipped my watch from my wrist, setting it on his side table. I let my head drop back against his shoulder, and we breathed in unison. In and out. In and out.
He started by dripping the massage oil down my chest. It was so warm that I immediately relaxed.
He flattened his palms, spreading the oil over my chest, saturating the hair. Rhythmically stroking down and back up again, creating a slick surface from my collarbones to my pubic bone. He kept his touch light enough to roll me into a relaxed headspace I never could’ve found on my own.
Bringing his hands up, he used his thumb and forefingers to tease at my nipples, plucking at them, twisting them; the touch still a hair too light.
“More,” I begged, shimmying against him.
He clucked his tongue. “I don’t think you know what edging means.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
His hands crisscrossed my chest and belly, dipping occasionally into the V of my hips.
Even less frequently to my balls. My cock, wanting to be a part of the fun, rose to the occasion.
He ignored it. I groaned at the way his hands teased out such pleasure from my skin, but I was so desperate for him to just fucking touch my dick.
A little more oil, the sweep of his hands, the pluck of his fingertips, soft kisses to the back of my neck.
Flat palm on my lower belly, rubbing underneath my erection, but somehow managing to only barely brush it.
Sucking my earlobe into his mouth, circling my nipples with his thumbs.
Shifting those devil thumbs down to my hips, rubbing at the hip bone, encouraging me to bend my legs, leaving me feeling exposed. Under-stimulated.
So fucking relaxed, but not.
He kept at it, persistent. Patient. Machiavellian. Rubbing my shoulders, running his palms up and down my chest, sliding over my desperate nipples. Circling my belly button, dropping lower to cup my balls, then returning with a light brush of a nipple.
I complained—loudly—but he would simply tsk before continuing the delicious torture.
I learned quickly that he’d happily delay my pleasure the more I complained and begged.
So, I clamped my lips together, letting him tease me mercilessly.
Quiet, save for pleasured moans I had no hope of controlling.
Finally, finally a stripe of oil to my cock.
It twitched hard at that bare sensation.
“Someone has been so patient for me,” he murmured in my ear.
“Not that patient,” I grumbled in return.
I was rewarded with a laugh and a firm stroke. Thank fucking God.
“You like that?”
“It’s my favorite thing in the world,” I said, breathless and twitchy and so fucking needy.
“You’ll let me know when you get close?”
I scoffed. “What, so you can make me—”
My words pitched up into a squeal when he gripped right under my cock head and twisted his slick fist. Once. Fuck, twice. Then stopped.
“—complicit in your torture?” I said through my gritted teeth.
“Exactly.”
I grumbled, but I honored the agreement.
He spent another several minutes stroking my belly, notching the edge of his hands in the sharp corners of my groin.
Finally, another firm, twisting, one-handed stroke.
So slick, so perfect. The other hand gliding up to my nipple, rolling it.
Pinching it, a sharp bite of pain to prevent me from melting into the pleasure.
He tightened his grip, speeding up his strokes.
My breathing shallowed, and my belly tightened.
“So close,” I admitted.
One final stroke before abandoning my cock. I wanted to cry.
“Oh, poor baby,” he said, running the flats of his fingers in circles over my low belly. So close. So fucking close, but nowhere near where I needed him. He shifted down a little, rubbed at my inner thighs, and ran his thumbs in the deep grooves along my hip bones.
My cock bobbed, wept.
A quick squeeze of my nuts, tight and drawn up.
“Oh, these are so full and heavy. I bet you can’t wait to empty them.”
“Please,” I begged.
“No begging,” he said, even as he mercifully returned to my shaft, his slick thumb moving back and forth over my slit.
He nipped at my earlobe. “Fuck, Beau. How the hell am I supposed to fit all this inside me?” he asked, tightening his grip, twisting right under the head.
For someone who didn’t have a lot of experience with guys, he was fantastic.
He kept stroking, bringing his free hand to my neck in a light necklace, not constricting my airway at all. The way I’d given over every ounce of my power to this man was intoxicating.
My eyes began to roll back in my head as his stroking worked me up, right up to the edge. I could feel it. I could practically taste it at the back of my throat. I moaned, and his hand left my cock.
I punched my hips up, trying to chase his hand, but he refused to touch me.
“You’re supposed to warn me,” he said. “Tsk, tsk.”
He gripped my shoulders, massaging the delts, opening my chest. My nipples tightened, begging for attention.
“I can feel how hard you are against my ass,” I said, trying a different tack. “Don’t you want me to make you come?”
“Oh, you will,” he murmured, his words sensual and mean. “You’re gonna take that little dildo, you’re gonna put it inside me, and you are going to make me scream.”
“I can do that right now if you just let me come.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” He kissed my earlobe. “I’m so sorry. We have just a little bit more to go.”
Liar.
I didn’t know how much more time passed, but I was a begging, drooling mess by the end of it.
Over and over, he stroked me right up to the edge.
If I admitted that I was about to come, he would still stop, but he would reward me with nipple play.
If I didn’t, if he had to figure it out himself, he left my nipples alone.
Finally, with my throat raw from begging, and my nipples just this side of chaffed, he once again began to stroke me.
“Close,” I warned.
“Good.”
He wrung me out, twisting his hand over the head. Going, going.
“Close,” I warned again.
He kept stroking. I didn’t trust it, but he kept going.
“Close,” I choked out, desperate.
God, I wasn’t going to be able to help it.
“Come,” he said softly in my ear.
I had never fully believed it when someone would come on command in porn, but I believed it now. That one word, as close as I was, as desperate as I was, was the ignition on a five-gallon bucket of gasoline. I was in orbit. Nuclear.
I came so hard that it hit his chin. My balls ached from the force of it. I don’t even know what kind of sound that was that came out of my throat, but it was as if I’d come not just with my cock, my balls, but with every millimeter of skin.
And I kept coming. Coming until I was drained, sore, and had lost all sense of direction. Even as he put his hands back on me, it was almost too much. I shivered and jerked.
“So sensitive.”
He tickled his fingertips across my nipples. I jerked even harder, and he kept … doing it. Stroking one finger along my cock. Loosely cupping my emptied balls. Every touch was torture and ecstasy.
I didn’t know how I was gonna make it happen, but I was gonna marry this man.