He twisted his hand as he continued to stroke me, faster and faster, building me higher and higher. The air around us had turned hot, and it was difficult to breathe.
His pupils were so huge that his eyes were no longer green. He was panting now, and his wet, pink tongue dragged across his lips while he watched me buck and moan for him.
“What do you see?” He asked it like he was afraid of the answer.
“Someone who deserves to be loved, baby.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back. Saying shit like that was a surefire way to ensure he would leave me here, desperate and needy. But to both of our surprise… he stayed.
“Tell me again. Tell me you care about me,” he whispered, his voice small and soft. I swallowed but rushed to tell him what he so clearly needed to hear.
“I care about you, Shemhazai. So fucking much.”
His eyelids fluttered, and he ran his thumb over my sensitive head. He let out a soft, needy groan before opening his lust-drunk eyes and brushing a soft kiss over my lips.
“Come for me, Gabriel.” He hummed, and it was like my body had been made to obey him. My dick fuckingexploded,and my mind blacked out, deafening me to my own breathy groans as pulse after pulse of euphoria rolled through my cock.
Shem stroked me relentlessly as I came, squeezing me at my base and drawing the cum up and out through my tip with each spasm.
“That’s it… come for me, baby. You look so fucking good when you come,” he purred as I continued to writhe and mumble nonsense.
The orgasm just keptfuckinggoing. I had never come for so long in my life, and Shemhazai watched it all with heavy-lidded eyes.
“Your pleasure is mine. It belongs to me. Tell me it belongs to me, Gabriel,” he purred, and I struggled to form coherent sentences for him.
“It belongs to you. Everything I have is yours. You can have it all, Shemhazai.” I rolled my hips up into his hand, and he leaned down, kissing the tip of my dick and catching my last few spurts in his hot, perfect mouth.
“Fuck…”I gasped as he circled my tip gently. He leisurely lapped at my slit until I finally finished.
Slowly, he released me, and I stared at him, frozen and unable to enjoy my post-orgasm euphoria as I wasn’t sure what he would do or how he would react to the things we had just said to each other.
The moment lingered, but slowly—as predicted—the soft, vulnerable look on his face began to melt away. There was a flicker of what looked a lot like fear and uncertainty, and then I blinked, and he was gone.
The only evidence that he had been there at all was my naked, cum-soaked body and the soft, lingering scent of cloves and cardamom.
I groaned and leaned my head back against the couch, annoyed that he’d left me without at least untying me first.
“Fuck,”I hissed out loud to no one before getting shakily to my feet to see if I could find something to cut myself loose.
The house smelled like rosemary and sage, and I smiled as I stepped over the threshold, careful not to disturb the line of ground cinnamon I had laid before the door to invite abundance.
“I’m home!” I called into the warmly lit interior, and my mom’s voice sang back to me from the kitchen.
“Welcome back, baby!”
I dropped my JanSport and kicked off my pink boots before following the spicy scents of my mother’s kitchen witchery into the heart of the home.
My house was eclectic in design. It looked like it could have been a set for a nineties TV show, as most of our things had been thrifted.
We liked our belongings to come with a story, and if we didn’t know the story, we came up with them ourselves.
For example, the mermaid lamp by the deep plum couch in the living room had once belonged to a man who had been left at the altar. He bought the lamp because it reminded him of his runaway bride, and he took comfort in the lamp’s warm light as he lay alone at night, missing his would-be bride’s comforting embrace.
One night, the lamp came to life and joined him, giving him the wedding night he had never had. Tragically, when he woke up the next day, the lamp had left him, too.
That’s how we came to find her, waiting for us at the local thrift shop.
Obviously, this was all completely insane and made up, but we had fun doing it. My mom had come up with the mermaid lamp story. Her stories were more tragic than mine and rarely had happy endings.
