He smiled, something warm moving through his eyes as he watched me douse my waffles. “I like feeding you.”
Something lit up inside me, bright and embarrassing and completely out of my control. I didn’t care even a little. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We ate, the silence as golden and easy as the sunlight streaming through the windows. Everything he’d made was as delicious as the eggs, and I devoured my food and half the leftover eggs on the stove.
After a quick cleanup, we moved to the sofa, and Jesse produced a sleek gaming console that made my setup at my parents’ house look like a Fisher-Price toy. I grabbed acontroller, settled in, and prepared to absolutely destroy him at Madden.
Except that didnothappen.
Instead, he sprawled on the opposite end of the sofa and spanked my ass game after game. Long legs propped on the coffee table, he played the way he did everything else: methodical and precise, like some kind of chess grandmaster. He read my defense before every snap, shifting his players around with quiet confidence until he’d found the weakness I hadn’t realized I’d left open. Then he’d call an audible at the line, switching the play at the last second.
“You changed the play,” I said, watching my cornerback get torched for the third time.
“You left the same coverage on the right side three possessions in a row,” he replied, eyes on the screen. “I felt bad not using it.”
“You don’t look like you feel bad.”
“I don’t.”
By the third game I’d stopped being annoyed and allowed myself to be fascinated. He managed the clock like a general running a campaign, controlling possession and never rushing a snap. When I finally scored a touchdown in the fourth quarter of game four, I whooped like I’d won the Super Bowl.
“Good one,” he said dryly. “I’m up thirty-five points.”
“Fifteen-yard penalty for taunting,” I muttered, sinking deeper into the sofa.
Laughing, he stood and stretched, his thin T-shirt riding up to expose his abs and the dark line of hair that disappeared into his waistband.
My mouth watered, all kinds of depravity springing into my head.
“I gotta take a leak,” he said, rounding the coffee table. “You need anything?”
“I’m good,” I said. He left the room, and I rested my head on the back of the cushions and stared at the ceiling, wondering how I could convince him to turn off the game and spank my ass for real. With his hand this time. The paddle had been fun, but his palm would probably feel better. Maybe he’d pull down my sweats and force me over his lap.
Or he’d bust out the cock cage and make me regret trying to scheme my way into an orgasm.
My dick twitched, and I tipped my head down and stared at it. Because since when was I into orgasm denial?
Since Jesse, a little voice in my head whispered.
A toilet flushed somewhere, and I grabbed my controller and flipped through the game menu, changing to a different team.
Jesse appeared around the end of the sofa and tossed something at me.
I caught it on reflex. Square. Plastic-wrapped. Chocolate.
A brownie.
“Dessert,” he said, resuming his spot on the sofa.
I injected censure into my tone. “In the middle of the day?”
He picked up his own controller and thumbed through teams. “Figured you worked off a lot of calories squirming on my dick earlier.”
Jesus.The chocolate frosting beckoned, and I tore open the plastic, peeled off a thick strip of processed heaven, and folded it in half. “The mouth on you, Mr. van der Meer.”
He looked at me, a slow smile warming his eyes. “I think you like my mouth just as much as you like my dick.”
