KNIGHT #3
Immediately, I bring my hands to his cheeks, thumbs hooked on the upper edge of his cheekbones and my little fingers cradling his jaw as he opens it wide.
“Oh, fuck, I’m not gonna last.” I say that every time, I think. I need new words. New lines. It’s just—he’s just—so good at this. I sink deep inside his hot mouth as his wet tongue worries the underside of my shaft with firm rubbing movements that feel like nothing a hand can do.
His cheeks hollow, and the powerful suction he creates has my hips lifting off the chair.
He must not want me to last because goddamn.
Pleasure shoots up my legs, down my spine, centering itself deep in my pelvis.
I drop my head back, mouth slack and eyes unseeing, my hands moving with him as he bobs his head.
His hair is down, tickling my knuckles, and his hands are pressed to my abs.
The gate unlocks, and sensation floods me. “I’m fucking coming,” I grunt.
He grabs me by the waist as I do, my stomach muscles jerking and contracting as a hundred other contractions send cum out of me and into him. It exits in startling, electric bursts. I came so fucking fast. It’s a small humiliation, but I feel it. Easy is an understatement. I’m a joke.
“Do you think I’m pathetic?” My words slur a little they come out so fast.
With my cock still in his mouth, still ejaculating, Sullivan gives his head a slight shake. He makes a dismissive sound, indicating he does not think I am, but I still wonder.
And I wonder, too, why I’m still shuddering through an orgasm when I feel so fucking small. Before he goes too far, I run my hands through his hair. I like how long it’s gotten. How clean it feels. The warm vanilla notes rise up and bathe me in his scent.
His hands close around my wrists and stop me from stroking his hair again, effectively making me stop touching him. He sits back on his heels and looks up at me. My cock is still hard and wet between us. “Pathetic?” he asks.
“Isn’t there some rule that what you say while you’re coming doesn’t count?”
“It counts the most. So do drunken confessions. Speaking of which. Did you bring anything for me to drink while you ace algebra for me?”
“I’m not gonna ace it for you. You have to answer two questions.” I mean to sound authoritative, like I do in a huddle, calling a play. But it comes out like a beg.
And of course he snorts another laugh. Using a hand on his chair to leverage himself off the floor, he sits back down next to me. His eyes are a little glazed, and I’m sure mine are a wreck. At least I didn’t cry this time.
“I’ll just leave them blank,” he warns.
“Jesus.” I pull my pants back up to cover myself and readjust the laptop. “There’s vodka and orange juice, and I don’t want to hear anything about it. It’s what was available.”
“I’d never complain about a screwdriver.
” He gets up and goes around the table into the kitchen.
I work on focusing on the first word problem.
It’s the kind of thing an eighth grader should be able to answer, and Sullivan’s no idiot, so I have to assume he didn’t even read it. “You want one?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll do drunken confessions if you will.”
“I might. Oh. You brought chicken. Are you cooking?”
“I can, but you don’t eat meat, so…”
“I should shut up and let you concentrate.”
“Sullivan, this is easy shit. You could take this quiz.”
“I’m gonna let you believe that.”
I glance over the laptop to see him pulling almost everything out of the fridge. The vodka is in the freezer, and he grabs that, too.
“The eggs are for me tomorrow,” I tell him before he thinks I planned some elaborate recipe.
“Three hot meals a day?”
“When I can.”
“Such a good midwestern boy.”
I shake my head and answer the next few word problems, completing the quiz and giving him his first perfect score. “Unit one is done. Tell me one of your complications.”
“I just sucked your dick.”
“Does that mean I can’t ask questions?”
“You can ask whatever you want, but it doesn’t entitle you to an answer.”
“I think you like sucking my dick.”
With his back to me, he shrugs.
“Why?” I ask. “Or is that too complicated?”
“You have a great dick. I told you that.”
“What’s complicated about your sexuality, then?”
He turns with a drink in each hand. “I’m allowed to still be deciding things that important about myself, don’t you think?” Walking over to the table, he sets my drink down and sits in the seat next to me again. He takes a long sip, draining half his glass.
I leave mine alone for now. He’s distracting enough. “Are you leaving once I’m done with the quizzes?”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Are you gonna ask me to stay for dinner?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Then ask. Make it official.”
I breathe in, trying to calibrate myself to deal with him. I wonder if he’s really this difficult or if it’s something he does specifically to fuck with me. I mean—it’s working. I’m damn near obsessed with him, so. “Wanna have dinner with me?”
“Sounds great.”
I’m better at reading people than this. On a football field, I’m like a mood analyst. I can tell when another team is pumped up or fatigued, I can tell when they’re worried about one of their players in particular.
I can tell when my team is even slightly off.
With Sullivan, I want to hedge my bets, not trusting myself to read him at all.
I don’t know if I can trust that he won’t make an excuse to leave after his algebra is done, and I do feel the need to feed him, especially now that he’s drinking.
He’s quiet and at least pretends to pay attention while I take the next quiz and talk him through every problem. When I hit submit, I turn to look at him with his empty drink in hand and ask, “Did you get all that?”
“Totally.”
“Hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just chicken and salad.”
“Amazing,” he says with a lazy grin. “Can I help?”
“Sure.” We get up and go into the kitchen.
He pours another drink for himself while I get started on my first. As I’m opening the package of chicken, he moves behind me, his hands first on my hips, then sliding up my ribcage and around to my pecs as he presses his body against my back.
He places a wet kiss on the nape of my neck, and I get chills.
“Super helpful,” I murmur as my cock rises to full attention again.
He’s hard, too, and pressed to my ass. I drop the package and grip the countertop, taking a deep breath. “Give me something,” I tell him.
“Like my cock?”
The suggestion makes both my brain and my balls ache. “Confess something.”
“I want to fuck you.”
“Mm…Something else. Something less obvious.”
His huff of a laugh on the back of my neck heats every inch of my skin.
“I saw my dad yesterday, and it made me sad.”
The bold truth takes me several seconds to work through. “Is he sick?”
“I told you he’s an addict. Painkillers. Cocaine. Whatever’s around. He’s got some sketchy dude living with him, and I don’t know what the fuck that was about, but Dad called me brilliant, and it made me sad.”
“Why sad?”
“It’s not like he’ll ever really get to see me play. Not like the way I want him to.”
“How do you want him to?”
“Like dressed in a suit in a famous concert hall.” Sullivan’s hips move slightly, enough that I can tell he’s using my ass to enjoy his own erection. He squeezes my pecs as he does this, and I am so hot and bothered I want to open a window or stick my head under the faucet.
“Is it that hopeless?”
“Does your dad come to all your games?”
I close my eyes, the place in my heart where I love my dad so much but wish he understood me better hurting. “Sometimes he has to work.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Does it make me an asshole?”
He nuzzles a no into my neck. “It makes you perfect.”