He carefully tucks me back into my underwear and we work together to pull up my jeans and zip them.
“Do you know? I’ve never done that in my plane before,” he says, playing with the seam that runs over my balls.
I shake my head, all of my muscles on standby.
Heathcliff parts the curtain, and Tolly finally drops his hand from my neck, wrapping his arm around my waist. I can feel his returning hard-on through the fabric of my jeans and its distracting as hell.
“Your ice water, sir,” Heathcliff says, his eyes averted.
“Thank you. I think we’re fine for the rest of the trip. I’ll hit the button if I require anything further.”
“Yes, sir,” Heathcliff says, setting both the ice water and a small plate with two tightly rolled, steaming washcloths on the small table by Tolly’s seat. Heathcliff returns to the galley and closes the curtain again. Tolly’s hand goes back to my throat, and the delicate way his fingertips dig into the sensitive skin becomes the center of my universe.
Tolly reaches for the glass of iced water, takes a sip, and holds it in front of me.
“Drink.”
I do as he says, grateful for the cool liquid. He reaches, grabs the edge of one of the washcloths, and snaps it open with one efficient move before wiping away any residual cum from our fingers and mouths. Once finished, he holds the washcloth to his nose and inhales deeply.
Setting the used cloth aside, he tenses the fingers at the side of my throat briefly before relaxing his hand. I swallow and my Adam’s apple bobs up against the inside of his palm. His other hand drifts down to my chest, his thumb grazing my nipple over the thin material of my shirt. I inhale sharply and arch my body. He tuts in that arch British tone of his, grinding his impossibly hard erection against my ass.
He thumbs the same nipple over and over, pinching and pulling on it. He lets his hand skim over my belly, and I grind back against him.
“Good. That’s good,” he says, cupping the bulge in my pants, his lips so close to my ear that I shudder.
It’s enough to make me hard all over again.
Dipping his hand into my jeans, he straightens out my cock under my waistband, just enough to expose the head while the rest of me is trapped.
“Spit,” he commands. I tilt my chin and do as I’m told, aiming to spit toward the head of my cock.
With just his thumb and forefinger, he begins to carefully—so carefully—rub my foreskin against the glans, lubricating it with my own spit. I’m tempted to beg for more, but I like the torture. I can only hear the sound of my own breath, ragged in my ears, as he continues to stretch and twist the foreskin over the sensitive tip.
“You fucked me with this last night, Gael.”
I nod.
“You slipped it over my cock and made me come so hard.”
“Ah… yeah.”
“I’ve never done that before, either. You seem willing to give me all kinds of new experiences.”
I nod off-kilter, coming out of my skin with the way his fingertips on my throat and his fingertips on my cock are each the perfect counterpoint for the other.
“Mmhmm,” I hum, half out of my mind.
“It’s only fair, then, that I teach you a few things before we land,” he says, rolling his thumb and forefinger.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
“As you know, my full name is Lord Ptolemy James Filbert Llewellyn Middleton III of West Shropshire. Spit again for me, darling, I don’t want you to chafe,” he says, his matter-of-fact delivery fucking with my head.
I follow his instructions only because I can’t think of another thing to do.
“My parents are—do you like it when I do that?” he asks as he dips his slick thumb between my cock head and foreskin.
“Oh… oh,fuck. Yes.”
