My hands are squeezing his thighs, and I go harder. But it’s never enough. How the hell do you pour all your passion into a single act and still feel like it’s not even scratching the surface?
"This is mine," I want to say.
But instead I moan against his skin. That’s close enough.
Because when you’re down bad?
When you’re Gio Fontana, face-deep in Rava Weston?
Even worship feels inadequate.
I press in deeper, licking and sucking. Oxygen doesn’t matter unless it passes through Rava Weston’s ass first.
And all the while? My hands don’t stop moving.
I want to touch everywhere. Worship everything.
Be everywhere at once.
Because how do you choose?
His back is art.
His waist is a fucking handle made for my grip.
His ass? I’ve said enough.
This is so wrong. This is deliciously wrong. I’ve got his ass in my face, and all I can think is Charles telling him not to evenlookat me.
Sure, Charles. No eye contact. Got it.
That’s the rule, right? Don’t look at each other.
Well guess what, sir. We’re not making eye contact. I’m too busy tonguing his soul out through his ass.
Not missionary, don’t worry.
Wouldn’t wanna violate anything.
Because God forbid we do anything respectful, right?
God forbid I kiss his mouth instead of his ass. I’m gonna keep him against this wall. Gonna eat him out until he forgets his name.
You think you’ve won just ‘cause you kept us apart in public? This right here? This is revenge.
This is me satisfying your son so dirty, so deep, so intimately, no priest on earth could undo it.
I lick him again.
He gasps and my dick twitches. I grip his thighs. Grounding myself because I’m two seconds from floating the fuck away. They’re thick. I don’t rush it.
I drag my hands up slowly. From the back of his knees, over every inch of those dripping thighs, all the way to his waist.
How the fuck has no one touched him like this before?
How the fuck did every man he’s ever met not drop to their knees on sight? How did they miss this?
He flinches under my palms.
