I desperately fight back my orgasm, but I’m seconds away. And as if he knows it, as if he’s testing my restraint, he brings the camera closer to his crotch.
His fist slides slow, deliberate, skin catching under his white-knuckled grip in a filthy, obscene drag. The veins on the back of his hand are dark against his pale skin, his arm trembling ever so slightly, as if he’s holding himself back too.
The only sound is that slick friction and my own breathing, because I can’t hold back the panting anymore.
“You thinking about her? Wet, tied up, begging? Bleeding?” His breath shudders out. “Or is it me?”
I don’t answer. Can’t.
I grit my teeth, my hand shaking as I struggle for control. His hand just keeps stroking—slow on the down, twisting on the up. Showing off.
A long pause, but his hand never stops.
Mine does.
It’s that or come.
“Don’t stop, boy. I want you to fuck your fist like it’s my mouth,” he says, voice as steady as the grip he has on his cock. “No one else. Just me…taking you all the way down ’til you see stars.”
But I can’t make myself move, I’m too close.
“Show me,” he whispers, his hand stopping. “I want to see how good you’re being for me, boy.”
He’s got me under some kind of spell, I swear, because there’s no fucking logic to why I pick up the phone.
Why I point it at my dick.
Why I nearly come when Rooke exhales a slow, shivery breath that I swear I feel against my face.
“You’ve got such a beautiful cock,” he murmurs. “Show me how you work it when you’re thinking of me.”
My back arches, my grip slick with spit and precum. I tug at my cock, but my movements are sporadic compared to his precise, measured strokes.
“Fuck,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna come.”
“Not yet. Not…yet.” Low, sharp.
The camera wobbles, catching the flex of his abs under that hoodie as hissed breaths slip out of him. He pauses to spit on his cock, and I mirror him.
“That’s it…a little faster now. Faster.” He’s stroking his cock again, speeding up. “Keep up, boy.”
There’s the wet sound again, echoed by my own.
“Next time you swallow me down, I’ll hold you there,” Rooke croons. “Feel your throat fight me. I’ll fill you so deep, you’ll be tasting me for days.”
A groan rips out before I can swallow it.
“There’s my good boy,” he says, almost laughing at my slip. “Nearly there, aren’t you?”
I try to will myself back from the edge, but his words keep shoving me closer. It feels like I’m in a Mission Impossible movie, trying to point the phone at my cock and keep up a steady pace with the other hand.
“When you come, it’ll be with my name on your lips. Not hers.Mine. And you’llmeanit.”
The slick tempo on his end climbs—matched to my thundering pulse, my bucking hips, that perfect unbearable friction.
Rooke’s voice becomes darker, even filthier.
“Gonna fuck you—” his voice tightens “—the way you fucked her that night. Tie you to the bed, spread you.” He groans again, sucking a breath through his teeth. “Fuck you ’til you’re weeping.”
