He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “O-okay.”
“It’s okay if you don’t understand something. There’s no shame in learning.”
He nods, his stare vulnerable, and the ice of my anger—directed at the world who misused this man—fades to the back of my mind as the heat of wanting him returns.
“And how do you feel about the scenario I outlined? Me using my mouth on you.”
“Good,” he grunts. “Very good.”
Eager joy lights up yellow at the edges of my sight, little fireworks of my own emotions.
“Do you want to take your clothes off? Or do you want me to?”
“Whatever you want,” he gasps.
I trace the edges of his stubble with my thumbs. “Whateverwewant.”
“You. If you’d enjoy it.”
I smile. “I think I would.” My hands drop to the top button of his flannel and pause. “If you ever want me to stop, just say so, and I will.”
“Same. With me.”
“Agreed.” And I start slipping buttons free, eager to discover more of his body.
True, I saw every last inch of his that first night. But I didn’t care about his form back then. He was a stranger I didn’t quite trust. There was no attraction. No curiosity past wanting to know who had been trapped.
Tonight, it’s like I’m discovering him again, and I’m panting for it.
The flannel is soft under my fingers, his skin smooth but for the slight brush of burnished blond chest hair. Now that Bo has agreed to this, I plan to give in to any physical urge I have, wanting to take full advantage of this attraction.
As his chest is revealed, I lean forward, nuzzling my nose into the little hairs, then sliding sideways to lick the flat disk of his nipple.
Bo’s breath catches, and his heavy hands settle on my hips. But he doesn’t push me away or tell me to stop, so I keep going.
When the shirt is undone, I guide it off his shoulders so it pools on the floor. A puddle of fabric on the wood floor.
This monster, who took care of the house that hurt him. Now I want to return the favor, even though this truly feels like a gift to myself.
The old leather of his belt slides free, as smooth as melted butter. My fingers struggle some with the button of his fly, and without my realizing it, the frustration manifests in me biting his pec. I release my hold.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize for any of this.” Bo’s voice is a needy rasp.
When I glance up, his expression is so stark that I can’t help but see the red of desire and canary yellow of eagerness weaving thick blankets in his emotional grid. I blink the magic away, only wanting to look at him.
The button slips free, and I carefully unzip his fly and push his jeans and boxers down his legs, fingers coasting over the firm globes of his ass.
Bo’s breathing accelerates as his erection juts forth, brushing the cotton of my sweater.
“Sit down,” I tell him, palms flat on his chest, directing him toward the chaise lounge.
As always, Bo does what he’s told.
He sits back, hands fisted on his thighs, chest expanding with deep breaths as he gazes up at me. His cock is thick, the tip of him an almost-angry red with the increased blood flow.
My mouth waters at the thought of sucking on him. Never in my life have I gotten turned on by the idea of giving a man head. I wasn’t repulsed by the idea. Just uninterested.
