“I can’t hold this much longer,” he wheezed. “I’m getting so close.”
“Come in me, Jer. Make me yours. I want to be yours.”
I didn’t know what I was saying anymore. My mouth was moving on its own, my brain having given up on playing any role. Jeremiah’s rhythm stumbled, likely as his brain, still functioning, processed the garbage I’d just spewed.
“Don’t you dare stop,” I ordered, reaching out and gripping his ass, pulling him deep inside me.
He snapped back to it, pushing and pulling, shoving and retreating.
His hand, slick with lube, grabbed my cock and began jerking so fast I couldn’t think.
“Jer, you’re gonna make me come.”“I want you to come, baby. I want you.”
He shoved deeper, faster, almost frantic now.
His abs clenched.
My ass squeezed.
His cock throbbed and pulsed, then he growled as liquid heat filled the condom over and over.
He squeezed my cock, his grip mirroring the way my ass squeezed his load, and those stars on the ceiling flared. A wave ofpressure, building since the moment I’d seen him naked, swelled and pressed against my insides.
I couldn’t hold back the tide. It was too much.
Jeremiah was too much.
I wanted to shout to the sky, to scream and yell, as pleasure poured through me, but I bit my lower lip and stifled my cries.
My cock exploded across his hand, spilling across my stomach.
He didn’t stop stroking or thrusting or kissing.
Cum slathered our skin, slick and sticky between us.
His cock pulsed inside me, mine in his hand.
Until neither of us could move, and Jeremiah collapsed in a heap atop my sweaty, goo-covered body.
Chapter 34
Jeremiah
Three weeks had passed since Mrs. Chen’s surgery, and what started as a temporary favor had somehow become the best part of my daily routine.
Every morning at seven-fifteen, I pulled up to her house with two cups of coffee—one black for me, one loaded with enough cream and sugar to qualify as dessert for her—and let myself in through the back gate. Cuddles would bound over with what could generously be called enthusiasm, though she still felt compelled to give my hand a warning nip before allowing me to scratch behind her ears and receive a proper tongue bath.
“Morning, you furry terrorist,” I’d say, and she’d wag her tail as though I’d just offered her a lifetime supply of bacon.
This morning routine was simple: fresh water, a cup of kibble, and whatever leftover treats Mrs. Chen had inevitably saved from her dinner the night before. Cuddles had trained the old woman well—somehow convincing her that golden retrievers required a varied diet of table scraps and the occasional piece of toast with jam.
“You’re spoiling this dog rotten,” I told Mrs. Chen one morning, finding her on the back porch in her bathrobe, looking significantly stronger than she had a week earlier.
“She’s been through trauma, too,” Mrs. Chen replied with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who’d clearly thought this through. “Being separated from me for surgery and having her routine disrupted was a shock to her system. Besides, a little extra love never killed anybody.”
Cuddles, as if understanding every word we spoke, pressed her nose into my palm and looked up at me with liquid brown eyes that had somehow learned to communicate “I deserve all the treats” with devastating effectiveness.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I told her. “You get plenty of treats. You’re getting fat.”
