Cocks.
That word again.
“Right. Yes. Obviously.” I’m definitely blushing now. “It’s just, you know, tight spaces and... okay I’m going to stop talking now.”
“Good idea.” But he’s grinning as he raises his arms to start stripping off his clothes.
Oh.
Oh no.
Ohyes.
Because here’s the thing about Gregory Falk that I somehow keep forgetting until it’s right in front of me. The man is built like someone who actually uses that expensive gym downstairs. He’s a veritable hunk. The reason that particular word exists in the English language.
His broad shoulders flex as he drags the cashmere sweater over his head with agonizing slowness, revealing ridges of muscle that catch the low light like topography.
My breath hitches.
Every inch of his chest is a brutal landscape. Those cut pectorals, that dusting of dark hair tapering down his sternum, the skin pulled so tightly over bone and sinew.
He’s all hard angles and predatory grace, and when he drops the sweater, his hands go to his belt.
Thesnickof the buckle releasing echoes in the tiny bathroom.
My knees feel suddenly weak.
He peels his jeans down those powerful thighs, inch by torturous inch, and my gaze focuses on the sharp V-cut of his obliques. Those sexy muscles flex with every movement, the deep furrows flanking his hips like sculpted channels, drawing my eyes inexorably down, toward the waistband of his briefs. Further down, the fabric strains against the unmistakable, thick outline of his huge cock.
He hooks his thumbs into the elastic. Slides it down.
Oh god.
I should look away.
I absolutely do not look away.
He catches me staring and his grin widens.
His cock springs free, thick and engorged and already glistening at the tip. A thick bead of pre-cum leaks from the slit, and I watch, mesmerized, as it slides down the straining veinbeneath. He’s fully erect, magnificently so, the head flushed and heavy.
My mouth waters.
My panties are soaked, clinging, and I press my thighs together hard to stifle the throb I’m feeling there.
He doesn’t rush. Lets melook. Lets me see the flex of his abs as he bends slightly, the predatory hunger in his eyes as he fishes a condom foil from his discarded jeans pocket.
Of course he has one.
Does he have an infinite supply in there?
Did he grab it from his bedroom beforehand?
But then all thoughts vanish as he tears the foil with his teeth, never breaking eye contact.
The latex sheath gleams as he rolls it down his thick length with one slow, efficient stroke, pulling the skin taut.
The sound... that wet, intimateshlick...sends ravenous sparks through my belly.
