Matt took the lead, his hands bringing us together in the most intimate of ways. Our cocks lined up perfectly, and the friction was exquisite—each movement sending jolts of pleasure through my body. I groaned into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair as we moved together in a rhythm.
I couldn’t believe he was holding back like this, playing the gentleman when I knew he wanted to play anything but. His self-control was more impressive than his bank balance—and that was saying something. Who knew billionaires could be such saints? Most of them just bought their halos at auction. But here was Matt, proving that some treasures couldn’t be bought, even with a platinum card.
The realization hit me like a Vegas jackpot, and before my brain could consult my mouth about the wisdom of emotional declarations during foreplay, the words came tumbling out. “I love you, Matt,” I breathed out, wondering if Hallmark made cards forSorry I confessed my love while grinding on you.
His laughter was soft and warm. “I love you too, Andy,” he replied, his voice dripping with enough honey to put beecolonies out of business. “Everything about you—even that smart mouth that writes checks your sass can’t always cash.”
I laughed, but the sound quickly morphed into a drawn-out groan as he increased the pressure and pace of our friction-filled ballet. My toes curled deliciously as heat suffused every inch of my body. We were both panting now, our bodies slick with sweat as we chased our release.
Matt must have sensed how close I was because he tightened his grip around us both—a squeeze that promised ecstasy. I clung to him, burying my face against the crook of his neck as my release crashed over me like a tidal wave. My world narrowed to nothing but the feel of Matt against me and the sweet aftershocks rippling through my limbs.
Coming down from that high, I attempted my best disgruntled kitten glare—which, given my post-orgasmic state, probably had all the ferocity of a marshmallow. “It’s so unfair,” I panted out, trying to sound annoyed but achieving the vocal equivalent of a happy puddle. “What are you, some kind of orgasm ninja? Did you train in the mountains with tantric masters?”
His laughter filled the room like expensive champagne bubbles as he fixed those stormy steel-gray eyes on me—the kind that could probably make ATMs dispense money without a card. “Let’s just say I’ve had more practice laps around this particular track,” he drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “I’m not exactly fresh off the assembly line like some pretty young things I could mention.”
“Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it, grandpa?” The challenge lit me up faster than a Vegas billboard at sunset. “Give me five minutes with nothing but my mouth,” I retorted with a grin that would make a shark nervous, “and I’ll have you forgetting your own net worth. Age before beauty? More like beauty makes age irrelevant.”
Thirty-One
MATT
Unable to resist such delicious audacity, Matt burst out laughing and pulled Andy close, planting a firm kiss on those smart-mouthed lips. Andy’s squeal of delight quickly morphed into a pained yelp that reminded Matt that his feisty firecracker was still more bruised than a clearance sale peach.
“Whoa there, Eager McBeaver,” Matt murmured, gentling his grip and cupping Andy’s face. “Ten minutes. I’ll double your time limit since you’re so… ambitious with that mouth of yours.”
Andy’s smirk could’ve powered the entire Las Vegas Strip. “Keep your charity, Mr. Moneybags. Five minutes is all I need to make you see stars without your penthouse view.” Then, with a theatrical ‘mwah’ that would put Broadway to shame, he began his southbound expedition.
Each kiss was like a winning poker hand, calculated to make Matt fold. Andy’s tongue wrote promises that would make a romance novelist blush, turning Matt’s body into his personal playground. When he reached Matt’s nipples, alternating between kitten licks and love bites, Matt’s groans could’ve registered on the Richter scale.
Matt watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Andy worked his way down, that clever tongue mapping his abs like they were the lost city of El Dorado. His fingers tangled in Andy’s hair, each muscle twitching like it was auditioning for a dance show.
When Andy finally reached ground zero, he stared at Matt’s impressive equipment with all the wide-eyed innocence of a cat in a canary shop. “Well, well, well,” he breathed, “looks like someone’s ready to make a substantial deposit. Five minutes is all it’ll take to empty this particular account.”
Matt’s laughter rumbled like thunder. “Care to put your money where your mouth is, sweetheart?”
“Oh, I’ll put something where my mouth is,” Andy shot back with a grin sharp enough to cut diamonds. “Five minutes or less, guaranteed delivery.”
“Try half an hour,” Matt countered, enjoying how Andy’s eyes bulged like he’d just suggested they relocate the Bellagio fountain to Mars.
“You’re not serious.”
“Dead serious,” Matt purred, his thumb tracing Andy’s bottom lip like it was fine art. “What’s wrong? Performance anxiety?”
“I’ll show you performance,” Andy declared with the determination of a caffeine-addicted student during finals week. But when he opened wide for the main event, his ambition wrote a check his gag reflex couldn’t cash—managing only the tip before his eyes started watering like a fountain show.
Matt chuckled fondly, stroking Andy’s hair. “Easy there, Speed Racer,” he soothed, voice warm with affection and amusement. “This isn’t the Indy 500. We’ve got all night for you to work on your… oral presentations.”
Andy’s determination blazed brighter than the Vegas skyline. “This is definitely a time thing,” Andy declared with the confidence of a card counter at a blackjack table. “Five minutesor less, Mr. Billionaire. Welcome to Andy’s Express—where satisfaction is guaranteed or your money back.”
Andy dove back in with the fervor of a man trying to win the World Series of Oral, his pride on the line and his mouth working overtime. His lips wrapped around Matt’s cock like he was trying to win a gold medal in dedication, his tongue conducting a symphony of pleasure that would’ve made Mozart jealous.
Matt watched, utterly captivated by the sight of Andy between his legs. So fucking adorable in his concentration, Andy’s pretty gold-brown eyes glanced up occasionally with a determination that could’ve powered the entire Strip. Each flick and swirl of his tongue sent sparks through Matt’s system like a slot machine hitting the jackpot, while those clever hands played Matt’s body like a perfectly tuned instrument.
Andy’s performance was nothing short of spectacular—a blur of wet heat and eager enthusiasm that had Matt’s toes curling into the sheets. But like the House, Matt never lost his edge. Fifteen minutes ticked by, and Andy finally released him with a wet pop, panting like he’d just sprinted the length of the Strip in July.
“This is ridiculous,” Andy huffed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re cheating somehow. What did you do, swallow a bottle of Viagra? Or is this some sort of billionaire-exclusive endurance upgrade I don’t know about?”
Gathering his exhausted firecracker into his arms, Matt couldn’t suppress his triumphant grin. “Looks like I win the bet,” he purred, voice rich with affection. “Time to collect my winnings. That’s how gambling works, or did they not cover that in Blow Jobs 101?”
