Though the angle wouldn't allow me to pull off this move for long, I pushed a finger inside him as I swallowed him to the root. A hoarse, wheezing sound rattled out of him and he tightened his grip on my hair like he was in terrible pain but that first, ripe taste of salt promised he wasn't in any form of pain.
"I've heard about this," Max said through clenched teeth.
Since I had a very large dick in my mouth, my response came in the form of raised eyebrows.
"This is the marriage blow job," he continued, one hand on my head and the other braced behind him on the bed as his hips jerked up to fuck my face. "The blow job that's so good it ends in a proposal."
There were gag-tears streaming down my face and I was going to have a cowlick tomorrow from all this hair pulling but I managed to smile as his cock shuttled in and out of my mouth.
"That's okay, Jory. I know you. I know you didn't plan it this way," he drawled. "I'm not even sad you beat me to it."
I managed a jerky nod as he surged forward, locking me in place with his hand on the back of my head. I didn't know what he meant about beating him to something but there wasn't time to examine all these stray comments as he cursed and exploded down my throat.
It was a full minute of him filling my mouth, holding me steady, humming and gasping and vibrating as if unbound electricity was coursing through him. It wasa lot. I was no blow job master. I knew what I was doing, but I didn't know how to be comfortable with my tear-stained cheeks or my swollen, reddened mouth or the painful erection trapped under cruelly slim trousers that I wouldn't be able to disguise when pushing to my feet.
I didn't know how to embrace the ugly side of sex, the side that wasn't ugly or awkward or shameful at all. If it was anything, it was the human side and that was what I didn't know how to embrace.
Not until Max Murphy cupped my cheeks in his hands, thumbed away my tears, and said, "I love you. No, I don't want you to say anything. I don't want you to say a single word because I know you're not ready for words but I love you. Someday, I'm gonna marry your ass off. You just tell me when you're ready for that."
I bobbed my head. "Okay."
He grinned, big and warm and dazed, and hauled me onto the bed. "Let's get you naked. I'm not finished with you yet."
6
Max
The drivefrom Boston to Sugarloaf, way up in the Carrabassett Valley of Maine, was stupidly long. Really, truly, stupidly long. At several points during those four and a half hours, I suggested we pull off the highway and find somewhere else to hide away for the next seven days, somewhere we could benow.
Jory thought I was joking. He laughed and smiled and nuzzled his head against my shoulder while I scowled at the road. He filled the time by thinking aloud about the seventh grade physics unit he planned to launch in January and the new coding initiative he was working on with Juliana. There was also an extensive recap of the holiday spent with his mom and sister, both of whom were epic pains in the ass while he was back home.
"Keaton's biggest problem—well, no, she has a lot of problems. I can't narrow it down to one," he said with a sharp laugh. "Her problem at the moment is wanting to control everyone. Their thoughts and feelings too."
"Good luck with that," I replied, doing my level best at listening and responding while every inch of my body was cranked all the way up.
The only relief was Jory's body on mine, his mouth, his skin, his touch. I wanted everything and I wanted itnow. It'd been like this since the holiday party. Every minute since, I'd wanted to go crazy on him. The night we'd spent together satisfied about one percent of my needs, leaving me to throb and ache like the thirsty horndog he'd turned me into.
Part of the problem was sleeping with him—actually sleeping—was the best thing in the world. Just the best. And that was a problem because I didn't get to do it nearly enough.
The other part was Ilovedthis man and he didn't freak out when I told him. I'd expected some wide-eyed overwhelm and a frantic response (in Jory's careful, controlled way of being frantic) about our relationship moving too quickly, especially after I popped on that part about marrying his ass off. Instead, he'd lit up like the Vegas strip and nodded as if he loved me too. Like he wanted me to marry his ass off.
Being married to him would be real nice. I could already see his crisp button-down shirts lined up in the closet beside my polo shirts. That was the one that always got me. Our shirts in the closet together. I didn't know why it mattered so much but something about sharing a closet and getting dressed together was too right. I could see myself making toast for him in the morning. I'd always make his toast just the way he liked it and I'd smile at the ring on my finger as I slathered that toast in peanut butter.
"I know, right?" He shot me a glance and I nodded because it seemed like the right thing to do even though I wasn't sure where we were in this conversation. "Only Keaton can determine how someone should react to a situation, and god help you if you have an unapproved reaction. I mean, she wants everyone to be happy and joyful because it's Christmas, but she doesn't actually want to do anything to contribute to the happiness or joy. She just wants everyone to be together at the house—and that's it. She doesn't want to do any activities, doesn't want to go anywhere, doesn't want to have people over. And she gets upset when I leave to visit friends, as if that's some kind of knock on her. Basically, she wants everyone to sit around, doing nothing and going nowhere, and brand it a merry Christmas."
"And why do you think that is?" I asked. I'd learned that one from Mal.
"She doesn't know how to experience happiness or joy." He said it slowly, as if he'd realized this right now. "At the same time, she's less of a headache than my mother. Good grief. All she wanted to do was needle me about Bayside."
I glanced over at him. "Why?"
He unscrewed the cap of his glass water bottle and took a sip. "She thinks—and has thought since the start—teaching at Bayside is a huge mistake. She believes in traditional district schools and, in some cases, parochial schools. She doesn't believe in independent schools that aren't tied to a faith and she certainly doesn't believe in charter schools."
Again, I had to ask, "Why?"
Gesturing with his water bottle, he replied, "She's a diehard union gal and she came up in a time when unions made a significant difference in working conditions for teachers. Not that they don't now but it's different." He shrugged, downed another mouthful of water. "Times have changed but her mindset hasn't. She says working at schools like Bayside is asking for trouble." He ran a hand down his thigh, cocked his head to the side. "As if the school will shut down in the middle of the night and we'll come to work in the morning to find the doors barred. Or that we're choosing to get screwed in contract negotiations and pension programs."
"Huh. None of that has ever occurred to me," I said. "Should it?"
