Chapter 21 #2
Our cocks touch, separated by only two thin layers of fabric, but as much as I want to, I can't be the one to reach for him.
History keeps me from responding the way I really want to in an effort to protect myself.
I hate him a little for our past being able to keep me from living only in this moment, doing what feels right and natural, but you can only burn yourself so many times before you stop reaching for the fire.
He takes a step back, the dampness on my neck sending a wave of chills through me as the cool air replaces the warmth of his mouth.
I lift my head, holding it a little higher, waiting for the fit of anger and praying he remembers the listening device in the other room before he breaks my heart and ruins our chance with this job, all in the same breath.
Instead, he looks down, watching his hands, and I do the same, and see with disbelieving eyes as his thumbs hook into the waistband of my boxer briefs.
My mouth drops open, chin to chest, as he gently glides the fabric over my ass and down my thighs. My cock springs free, the tip glistening with need, and a moan escapes my lips when the tip of his tongue snakes out to wet his bottom lip as if he's desperate for a taste of me.
The devil could have my soul after this if he just dropped to his knees right here and put those perfect lips around the head of my cock.
Instead, he reaches down, stroking the length of me once before lifting his eyes to mine as if he's trying to gauge what I like and what I don't.
The lack of anger and frustration is new, but his looking me in the eyes, rather than turning his head in what I always read as shame, seems like the absolute prize right now.
I roll my lip between my teeth, not wanting to ruin the moment by moaning as if I've never been touched before.
With his other hand, he reaches for mine, and I feel like a fool when I try to intertwine my fingers with his, causing a chuckle to erupt from his lips.
Right. NO holding hands.
But rather than stopping, he turns my hand in his, guiding it to the waistband of his own boxers, keeping it in his grip until my fingers are wrapped around his cock.
His breath shudders, his exhale echoing the same sound of relief I'd expect from a man drinking a glass of water after a week without water in the desert. There's a certain level of desperation in it, the same one I feel crawling through my entire body.
On instinct, knowing what he has always liked, I begin to lower myself to my knees, taking him, releasing my cock as the permission I need, but instead, I find his fingers gently around my throat, cock jerking in his hand.
My eyes widen when he smiles.
"Really?" he whispers.
I shake my head. "I d-didn't know."
It's the whole fucking truth. I've never put myself in a position to even find out if getting a little rough was something that I was into.
Maybe with my history with him, and the pain I felt after he'd get mad at me and leave within minutes of us messing around, I figured it wasn't something I could get into.
Clearly, my cock and I aren't on the same wavelength these days.
"I'll keep that in mind," he whispers.
"Do you want a—"
He shakes his head, silencing me before I can get the full offer out.
"No?"
"If you're down there," he says, lips an inch away from mine. "Then we can't do this."
His lips sweep over mine, tongue seeking and searching a lot quicker this time than it did just moments before. His hand works up and down my cock, his own hips rolling, urging me to work the length of his.
I do my best, but coordination when your brain doesn't even remember how to work is impossible, and if I were in my right mind, I might even be a little embarrassed with how badly I'm doing.
Frankie doesn't seem to mind.
The sounds coming from his chest and the ragged breaths he takes every so often when he pulls his mouth back an inch or so make me want to believe the man is enjoying himself.
"Fuck," he grunts, his forehead pressing to mine.
When he pushes forward, rolling his forehead so it forces us both to look down and watch what we're doing to the other, I realize I'm seconds away from coming.
"Frankie," I mutter, wanting to kick my own ass at the sound of his name rolling off my lips, but he doesn't falter.
His hand continues to work up and down the length of me.
"That's it," he praises, his mouth lifting to mine as if he knows that his lips on mine when I release has always been a dream of mine.
I groan into his mouth, cock kicking in his hand, and much to my surprise, he doesn't jerk back when splashes of my cum land on his cock, lubricating the stroke of my own hand down his length.
He grunts, his cock swelling a second before he orgasms.
His breath is ragged when he pulls back, eyes darting between mine, and I just know this is when the anger arrives. Post-nut regret is a real thing, and that's when finger-pointing and blame arise.
His chest heaves, rising and falling with every seedy inhale and exhale.
"I'm fucking exhausted," he says, leaning in one more time and pressing a soft kiss to my lips.
I stand there, swallowing and wondering just how hard I was breathing while we were messing around, because my mouth feels so dry.
"Me too," I say, letting my hand fall away from his softening cock.
His eyes drop for the briefest of seconds before he releases me as well, and the step he takes back, the distance he puts between us, feels like an uncrossable chasm, wider than any that has ever existed between us.
Is it regret in his eyes? Embarrassment? Shame?
I can't exactly decipher what the man is feeling, but I know from experience it isn't gratitude and elation.
If anything, the blankness in his eyes is worse than the usual anger and hatred he showed in the past. At least that was an emotion. Not feeling anything or not being affected enough to respond at all somehow cuts a little deeper than he's ever cut me before.
I shake my head, feeling like a fool despite being a very active participant in what just happened.
"Hey," he says, lifting his hand to my face, but stopping it a few inches shy. "Shit."
A chuckle fills the room, and I follow his eyes, grinning when I see my cum coating his fingers.
The laughter dies away quickly.
Rather than stepping around me, he keeps his hand away from my face and presses another swift kiss to my lips.
"Gonna get cleaned up," he says.
"You first," I tell him, as I take a step to the side.
He walks past me, opening the door with his clean hand and heading to the bathroom.
I stand in the hall, not knowing what to do. I have no idea what his expectations are, but when I hear the lock on the bathroom door engage, I know that whatever we just shared is over.
Instead of sticking around to find out and putting us in an even more awkward situation, I quickly wash my hands in the empty kitchen sink and go back to my room.