Taking it over to him, I take the cushion next to his and pull his hand into my lap. I quickly get to work cleaning the gash, following with a tightly-wrapped strip of gauze to stop it from bleeding any more than it already has.
“Had to be that hand,” he says almost resentfully.
If memory serves me correctly, he tattooed a half circle into this same palm under a dirty set of bleachers when he was a teenager. A symbol of a connection he’d never made with his parents or with the God that they wanted so badly for him to believe in.
“I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” I tell him. My thumb traces the features in the face of a black-eyed demonic creature which now covers any trace of the tattoo he’d done in his youth. “It’s gonna hurt like hell tomorrow, though.”
Bringing his palm to my lips, I gently press a kiss to it before trailing my lips to his wrist and forearm.
“Things would be a lot easier for you if you didn’t bottle it up all the time,” I tease.
Tripp is laser-focused, watching my every movement. A huff pushes itself from his nose.
“Montgomery men don’t cry.”
He says it so plainly that I would believe it had been ingrained in him since the day he was born. Not just a simple phrase, but a statement of who ‘Montgomery men’ are expected to be; how they’re expected to see themselves.
“We’re not asking you to cry,” I tell him as my lips meet his shoulder. “We just want you to let go of it for a minute; or let us help you carry some of it.”
His fingers push into my hair, adding force to keep my lips pressed to his skin. No room for conversation – no room for anything more complex than skin on skin; a sin for a sin.
My lips meet his as Tripp’s free hand drops carefully onto my lap, finding my cock as if his palm is a homing missile locked onto its target. A needy hum feeds into my mouth from his as he trails his palm from the head of my cock to its base behind my zipper.
Separating from our kiss, I slide off of the seat of the couch, keeping my hands on Tripp’s waist as I do.
“What are you doing?”
My lips turn up playfully at the corner as my knees hit the ground, and I move to slide open his belt.
“I’m going to make you let go,” I answer him. “Just relax for me and let me make you feel better.”
As my fingers work the button and zipper of his jeans, he shifts to let me slide them to his ankles with his boxer briefs. My lips meet the inside of his knee to trail slow, teasing kisses toward the base of his cock.
A groan slips out of him as I bring my hand to his balls, massaging them against my palm while my lips work the hard length of his shaft. Kissing. Licking.
Worshiping.
As they trail across the ink inlaid in his skin and his wife’s name in bold, gothic print to match the text that crawls across his fingers, the corner of my mouth quirks at the thought of my own name joining it someday. Taking up space on his body. Becoming a part of him.
The space between Tripp’s legs widens as his body melts into the cushion, and I settle in between them on my knees. Using a light touch, I drag my tongue from the base of his thick cock to the head of it, pressing a kiss there before pulling it just past my lips to tease him.
“If you’d let me, I’d get on my knees for you and worship this cock every day,” I tell him. “I would memorize every vein. The way you taste. The way that your breath catches when I do this,” I say as the pad of my thumb gently trails against the sensitive skin behind his shaft.
His body shifts under my touch, his brows stitching together as a quiet whine slips out of him.
My free hand wraps around the base of him, offering slow strokes as I drag my tongue along the shaft, tasting Julia’s name as I do. My mind lends the phantom tingle of her cinnamon lip balm to every taste bud, making the back of my jaw tick in response.
I take my time with Tripp, teasing and stroking his shaft, trailing my finger along the vein which runs up the side of it and teasing his slit with the tip of my tongue. When I finally pull him into my mouth, his head falls backward.
“Fuck,” he groans as his fingers tangle into my hair and his body shifts beneath my touch.
His hips move in time with my mouth while I take him deep into my throat, forcing me to adjust my body to accommodate my own aching dick struggling against the zipper of my jeans. A glance toward his face shows me his teeth tugging at the jewelry in his lip, his head falling backward once more as his chest heaves.
“Schepp, get up here,” he pleads, tugging at my hair. The pad of my thumb swipes across my lip as his cock leaves my mouth, pulling in a heavy breath. “Take off your clothes. Get naked and get the fuck on my lap.”
As I stand, Tripp pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it aside while I strip off my own. I follow with my pants, kicking them away from me, and I lower myself onto Tripp’s lap.
His bandaged hand rests at my hip, his thumb trailing along the length of the scar there. His free hand wraps around my cock to force a grunt out of me as he teases me with slow, firm strokes.
