I do of course, opening my mouth just enough for him to slide his finger inside and over my tongue. His expression is so heated, so erotic, I feel myself hardening again. “Now the rest.”
Because I’m greedy and pathetic, and so far gone for this man, I act immediately, swirling, tracing the lines of his neck and jaw with my tongue, licking up every drop of cum, before claiming his mouth with mine.
It’s bruising, messy, and laced with the love I feel growing by the second. By the time we break apart, I’m begging again, but this time it’s for me to return the favor.
“Let me taste you, Jamie, please. I’ll do anything.”
My hands are in his hair, my mouth back on his as he nods his consent. A beat later I’m fumbling with the zips of his chinos, desperate to get my hands and mouth around his throbbing erection. “I’m going to make you feel so good, baby.”
“You always do.” Hard, weeping and bobbing expectantly, the soft skin of his fat, heavy dick caresses my palm. He’s panting and sweating, so close to the edge that I can’t help seeking a fraction of revenge for my edging.
“You really do have the most beautiful cock I’ve ever seen,” I whisper, leisurely stroking him, and tapping him against my cheek. He looks pained now, so I yield. “Best tasting, too.” I slip him into my waiting mouth, sliding my tongue up and down the thick vein traversing his length, then taking as much of him in as I can. After maybe three or four hearty sucks, he’s gripping my head, fingers digging into my jaw, fucking into my mouth at a punishing pace then coming straight down my throat.
Sated, sticky and smiling, we collapse as one, star-fishing on the rug, pinkies linked between us.
All I can smell, see and think of is him … and how I can make this feeling last forever.
Iam in hell. Well, nothell,hell, there are worse places I could be, buried alive in a cheap, ugly coffin, stuck inside a cave filled with giant spiders, are a couple that spring to mind. But a party full of drunk college students is right up there with killer arachnids.
Just days before Cory celebrates his own day of birth, we’re partying it up for Sam Bailey’s.
On a Thursday, I might add.
Since Sam, who is apparently the most well liked person at Boston College, lives in a dorm room with Lucas, he’s sweet talked a frat house into hosting. The place is packed to the rafters with a good portion of the student population, the team, of course, and the coaching staff, too. Wisely, they all left within the first hour, but my constant need to be around a certain sexy little winger, sees me lingering well after I should.
And, I will admit to no one, enjoying myself more than I expected. The music, an eclectic mix of nineties house and 2000’s bangers, has my head bopping and my feet tapping, and I’ve even dressed up. My polo has been replaced with a loose, white linen shirt and these pleated and surprisingly comfy, wide leg pants Cory made me buy after seeing Henry Cavill rocking a similar pair. The way he drank me in when I picked him and Cherry up, was almost enough to make me feel confident.
For about twenty seconds.
Now, as the officialold weirdositting on the sofa nursing a cup of tea, I’ve assigned myself the role of team shenanigans supervisor. I’m not delusional enough to think the boys aren’t going to drink, but my presence may at least stop them from getting too messy. Plus from my comfy spot, I have a great prospect.
Cory, the boy who claimed to be an introvert, is currently on the coffee table, grinding between Quinn Harris and the birthday boy while wearing baggy jeans hanging below his ass, and a cropped sleeveless tee that barely covers his nipples. Cherry stands at their feet, jeering, wolf whistling and thrusting dollar bills their way.
Her antics aren’t what holds my gaze, though. It’s him. The sensual sway of his hips. The play of muscle beneath pale flesh, the contraction of those washboard abdominals my tongue is desperate to taste. Best of all, every time he raises his arms, I’m treated to a tantalizing glimpse of those pretty pink buds I need between my teeth, stat. It’s hypnotic. So much so, I don’t notice Brady flop onto the sofa beside me until he nudges me with his elbow. “Nice jugs.”
“What?”
“The cup.” With a nod he motions to the interesting boobs mug I was handed by one of the frat boys.
“Thanks.” I cup my right pec and wink. “Molded off my own, and I threw on my own potter’s wheel.”
Brady nearly chokes on his tongue as a blush colors his face. “Really?”
“No Brady. We’re in a frat house. It was the only tea holding vessel in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yeah. Right, good one, Plummy.” He laughs some more and sips from his flat looking beer. “I honestly thought frat parties like this only existed in teen movies.”
“Yet here we are, two Aussies and a boob cup, mooching on the couch like true dropkicks.”
Head collapsing onto my shoulder, Brady erupts into laughter. “Dropkick. Crap I haven’t heard that for ages. Man, I miss footy.”
“Me too,” I reply, gaze not shifting off Cubby. “Thank God for VPN’s, hey.”
“True.” I feel his eyes on me, then, in my periphery, I see him look towards the dancers. “Quinn’s quite smitten with Cubby. I think maybe … she’s not the only one?”
And consider the spell broken.
Think quick, idiot. Think quick. I point towards the other dancer. “You think Sam’s interested in Cory?”
