“Whoa, Agnes?—”
“Stop. Calling. Me.Agnes.”
He raised his hands, calloused fingers alighting on my wrist. “Jesus, Sawyer,” he said, taking deep breaths, his Adam’s apple floating up and down against my trembling palm.
The smell of his body, his cum, invaded my brain. When he’d arrived in Seguin, his scent had been sour and sharp with days upon days of sweat and unwashed skin and illness. Now, though, he smelled so fucking good. Like man and soap. And orgasm.
“You are driving me fucking insane,” I said, my voice a low growl. “I’ve done everything I could to make sure that you recover, that you see your friends and family, that you’re comfortable, that you’re well-fed, that you’re not abusing your precious body. And all I get in return is disrespect. That stops today. Nod if you understand me.”
He went to open his mouth again, and I cut him off. “No words. Just a nod will do. Do. You. Understand?”
He nodded a few times, his breath ragged.
“Thank you,” I said, unable to remove my hand from his throat.
My self-control obliterated, I inhaled sharply as I drank him in from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. His ink, as always, was a beautiful combination of roses and constellations and American traditional filler. His lips, even in that moment, held their pouty look, and I wanted—needed—to see them stretched around my cock.
I snorted. My cock in his mouth would definitely shut him up.
Fuck. Abort.Abort.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. Then another. When I opened them, he was fascinated by the massive hard-on tenting my towel. His gaze flicked back to mine, and his surprise morphed into a raised brow and a knowing look. “Sawyer…” he said as I shook my head.
“Don’t.”
“We both know that telling me no is a mistake,” he responded, somehow wresting back control of this conversation even as I held him in place.
“Shut up.”
He leaned into my grip. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be shutting up. In fact, I think I’m gonna tell you what I was fantasizing about before you walked in. I’m gonna share the visual that got me off.”
“Hen—”
“At first I was just imagining you with a blond twink, and I figured—nothing more than a good guess, really—you’d be awfully bossy in bed, wouldn’t you? Then I imagined you trying to tellmewhat to do in bed,” he said, chuckling. “God, I would fight you every step of the way.”
His every word stroked my cock, making me dizzy as I pictured what he was describing.
“Every time you told me to do something, I’d do the opposite.” He grinned, no clue how close he was to describing my own dreams. “It went on until youmademe do it, exactly as you wanted me to. All that repressed rage, all that repressed sexuality…fuuuuck. Dream Sawyer unleashed all of it on me.”
I tried to convince myself that I was holding it together, that I could ignore the effect his words had on my…everything. The high-pitched whine that escaped from the back of my throat seemed to indicate otherwise.
Hendrix clucked his tongue. “How many months has it been since you’ve been laid? It’s too bad you put so many constraints on yourself. Hell, I bet you’ve got a whole shit ton of rules about sleeping with your friends.”
I screwed my eyes shut again and felt his speeding pulse underneath my fingertips. Had he stepped closer? I should lethim go. Ineededto let him go. Holding him like this was probably assault, right? Why had he smirked like that?
His smirk was going to be the end of?—
As I was overthinking, he moved, and I smelled something. Something musky and…Jesus. My eyes flew open. He’d run his hand over his cum-splattered abs and held it up to my nose.
My breath caught in my chest.This, the most idiotic part of my brain screamed.This is what you’ve been craving.
Still gripping his neck, I grabbed his hand and stuffed his fingers into my mouth, dragging them along my tongue so that my taste buds—salt, sweet, and bitter—could experience him.
He let out a soft breath, desire and shock swirling in his dilated pupils.
His eyes locked on mine, Hen pulled his fingers from my mouth, returning them to his belly, once again dragging them through his spend. He reached up, this time pressing his fingertips to my lips. “Suck,” he ordered.
My brain reached for reason, but that room had been shuttered, the lights turned out, the door locked. Reason was not home. Starving, I opened my mouth, and he slipped his fingers inside. Those talented fingers that lit up his guitar and enticed crowds all over the planet, they were in my mouth, and again I was tasting him. Earthy, pungent.Hen.
