“Angelo.” Every time he said my name it drove me further from my senses, further from those safe moorings I had always kept in sex, in work, in life.
We rolled across the bed in a parody of fighting, fighting for a chance to be the first to taste here or bite there—he wriggled out of my fingers and seconds later he was giving me head, sucking too hard and making me hiss. I grabbed a handful of his hair, pulled him back, and he groaned a protest. “Please,” he whimpered.
I was lost.
“Not so hard,” I told him. “And keep your teeth to yourself, for God’s sake.” I sounded cruel, my words vicious, but I spoke tenderly and I smoothed my thumb across his wet lips. “Show me what a good little cocksucker you can be.” He caught my thumb in his mouth, rolled his tongue around it, and then he did the same to my cock.
He was enthusiastic, and when he coughed and slobbered around me it only built up the heavy drumbeat of desire at the base of my spine. I wanted to drown him in my cum, but I also wanted to drown in his, but more than that I wanted to explore every part of him, find out what would make him moan, what would make him beg, what would make himmine.
It felt like my heart was cracking open along with my balls.
He gave a deft curl of the tongue from the base of my cock to the tip, and then a faint, exquisite graze of teeth along the throbbing vein of my shaft undid me completely. I gripped the back of his head in both hands and forced myself deep into his mouth, his throat going slack to let me in. I kept him there, giving shallow fucks into his face as I emptied myself into him, knowing he’d either suffocate or swallow.
Even after that I hadn’t had enough of him. It was as though the rush of my orgasm was just the first course. When I let him go he coughed and gasped, flopped out on the bed. “That was so fucking hot,” he croaked.
“Get up here,” I demanded roughly, affectionately, and he crawled into my arms, his mouth drooling his own spit and my cum. I kissed him again, tasting us both, and he moaned against my tongue.
I pulled the blankets up over us. “How do you want it?” I asked, kissing the top of his head, and he gave a shiver of desire. He threaded his fingers through mine and then, almost shyly, pulled my hand down to his cock. “That’s really what you want? I could use my mouth—”
“No, like this, please,” he begged, just a hint of petulance in his tone. “But let me look at you while you do it.”
The light in the room was changing, a deep grey now rather than black. Combined with the glow of the monitor in the corner, I assumed he could see my expression as plain as I could see his, the longing and the need.
God, he looked young.
“Okay, kid,” I told him gently. “I’ll take care of you.”
He lay back, hand curled next to his face the same way it had while he slept, eyes heavy-lidded. I looked at his spit-slick red mouth and shuddered as the memory of my orgasm thrilled through me again. If I’d been twenty years younger I would have tried for a second round right then and there.
I lifted up his heavy dick and even that first touch made him bite his lip, press up into my hand. “Not so fast,” I told him, nuzzling into his shoulder. “I want to take my time with you.”
He swore and grabbed my shoulder. “Wait—” I stilled my hand. He was on a hair-trigger. I’d been reminded now of what it felt like, for every touch to seem unbearably sensual. I hadn’t felt so eroticized for years. Decades. And so I waited until he unclenched his jaw, like he’d been warding off his orgasm by determination alone, and then he nodded and pushed down the blankets. “Okay.”
I leaned up on my elbow and looked down his body, at his glistening cock moving in and out of my fingers. His belly heaved up and down with his panting breath and he responded visibly to every slight variation I made in my caresses. I pulled noises out of him, whimpers and groans, and I wanted so much to taste him that I had to bite down on his shoulder to stop myself from begging to have him finish in my mouth. He was close, gasping for air, his body tight and shaking as I stroked him sure and steady.
“You were made for this, kid,” I said in his ear. “Made for loving. Made forme.”
It slipped out. It was supposed to be just something sexy to say in the moment, something to ratchet up his tension, make him bubble over, but his eyes flew wide, stared straight into mine, and he came with a surprised curse.
I milked him through it until he hissed and convulsed, and then I sucked my hand clean while he caught his breath. My desire for him was still simmering away under my skin, like coming in his mouth had just been a sample and I wanted the full meal now.
“Fuck,” Bax said at last, shakily, and slung his arm across his eyes. “Oh, fuck.”
To my ears, it didn’t sound like an entirely happyoh, fuck.
A flash of red played at the edge of my vision, and I blinked. I moved away from him on the bed and grabbed a handful of Kleenex from the nightstand to wipe down the dregs of his cum, as my brain started looping a Sinatra song that had been playing in the bodega yesterday night.Regrets, I’ve had a few…
I got off the bed and pulled on my underwear as I checked the monitors. Still clear outside, and I doubted I’d missed anything during my interlude with Special Agent Baxter Flynn, except the dawning of the morning. I would check soon enough. The awkwardness and the desire to get away—these were familiar feelings. I was coming around to the regretful portion of any fuck.
I was coming around to abject horror, truth be told.
Sure, I’d messed with him for a few nights, got him off to allegedly help him sleep, but I’d had my own clear motives for that. Control. This—what we had just done—had been anything but controlled on my part.
I’dabandoned my post.
It had been an utter loss of self-restraint and balance. And worse. Because even now, as I glanced back at him in the bed, still with his arm over his face, even after I’d come in his mouth and made him drink me down, even though he was my sworn enemy…
I still wanted him.
