“Mmm,” he grumbles, ghosting his hand over my hip. “You’re giving me so many dirty ideas.”
“Yeah, like what?”
Curving his hand around my ass cheek, he then presses the tip of his middle finger into my hole, still a little loose from our earlier fuck session. “Do you wanna go bare tonight?”
“God, fuck.Yes.”
“Good answer. Do you have any oil?”
“Instead of the recovery lube?”
“Yep.” He reverses course, running his practiced hand up my spine. “Unless you need it.”
I shake my head and reach into my nightstand drawer. “Here you go.”
He sets it aside, then faces me, his smile a slow-moving evil thing.
Oh no.
“Please,” I groan, “just fuck me. I’m begging you.”
“Oh, Rami.” Truett clucks his tongue. “You haven’t even begun to beg me yet.”
I suck in a sharp inhale. “No.No, no, no.What does thatmean?”
“You said that when it comes to intimacy, you like letting me make the decisions,” he says, kissing the back of my hand.
“Yes, but?—”
“But nothing.” His hand on my face is a drug I can’t get enough of. “You’ve been through a lot, and you need my help, do you not?”
“But you’re the one who got?—”
Truett cuts me off with a deliberate shake of his head. “Maybe this is good for me too.”
“I don’t know,” I answer, wary of his plans for me. “I could probably get myself off pretty quickly right now.”
“But you won’t.” He locks his hands around my wrists as he leans in for another kiss. “Besides, what you want—what you urgentlyneed—is for me to slow down. To take my time. To make it count.”
One very insistent part of my body is definitely not on board with what he is suggesting, but the rest of me hungers for exactly that.
“You are not a good man,” I whine, knowing he’s going to take me apart, piece by piece.
“Yeah, but that sort of fits in with this crew, doesn’t it?”
I try to grumble, to protest, but he rolls on top of me, sliding his semi-soft cock against mine, silencing me with a kiss so deep and profound I’m willing to fly to Vegas and be his for the rest of my life.
Dramatic.
Oh, but his kisses are just that good. They reach right down to the core of me. Nothing he does is hurried or thoughtless. I’m drowning in the soft, insistent press of his lips against mine.
He finally pulls away from the kiss, supporting his weight on one forearm as he drags his fingertips over my chest, feathering them over my flat nipples. Our cocks harden against each other, and I arch into his touch, begging for more—more pressure, more skin, more of his mouth on mine and whatever the fuck he’s going to do with that oil—but he refuses to give in to my whining. Which, as a guy who’s rarely told no, is probably exactly what I need.
Fuck’s sake, don’t tell him that.
His fingers trace every rib, circling back to feather over the sensitive nubs before tracing down my sternum and my belly button. His steady resolve is an insistent sort of heat. I melt against the bed.
He then goes back over the same ground, this time with his lips, ghosting over the already innervated skin, a mere whisper of the pressure. I’d give anything to have him flip me and fuck me into the mattress.
