I sagged against you. “I tried to be. It wasn’t… pleasurable… for me.” I’d been choking on your blood by the end. Sobbing.
“I know,” you said, a small mercy. Your thigh slid against my raw length, urging me on. Touching you was both my sin and absolution.
Instead of biting, I bruised your neck with suction as my palm skated along the smooth contours of your chest, over your gently ridged abdomen, and swept along the inside of your thigh, to that delicious cleft where leg met with groin. Warm and sticky with my slick where I’d been gently nudging, I touched you there, passing briefly over your cock to cup you in one hand.
“Do you enjoy having my hands on you?” I squeezed, applying just enough pressure to cause your shoulders to tense and your chest to swell, presenting like a ship’s prow.
“Yes,” you said, shaken by sensation.
“And you trust me?” The hand that had been tugging at your hair migrated to your neck. I gripped the slender column of your throat so that I could feel your pulse throbbing in the palm of my hand. Your face flushed, either from my hold or your heated arousal.
“I do.” Your head turned slightly to stare at me with shining eyes. You swallowed, and I felt the pressure of your prominence against my palm. “I always have.”
“I never want to hurt you.”
You smiled. “You can hurt me a little bit.” Your hands were on my biceps, kneading my muscles as though priming them for a feed.
“Let me see you touch yourself.”
I withdrew my own hand. Your knees fell open as you reached between your legs, one hand fisting the base of your erection while the other massaged your balls. Your cockhead was tinged the same violet hue as your lips and nipples, drawing my eye as I reveled in the luscious feast laid out before me. Where to begin? I kissed your inner thighs, and you shivered so deliciously under my lips, a spider’s filament caught in the breeze.
“Henri,” you moaned, hips rising off the bed to thrust into your hand.
“Patientia, Vincent.”
“Don’t quote Latin proverbs to me right now,” you growled. I took your hands by the wrists and forced them against the pillows, then, with my tongue, slowly licked you clean. I nibbled at your nipples—another sweet cry—then ministered the cuts carefully with my tongue. You twisted, attempting to make contact between our groins, but I kept out of your reach.
“You’ve been tormenting me for so long,” I said.
“The feeling is mutual. I had to drop a lot of hints.”
“I didn’t want you to run from me.”
“You’re the one who runs.”
“Not anymore.”
I placed your palms underneath your bent knees and instructed you to hold them. “Let me,” I said. You nodded, lithe muscles straining as I ran my hands along your soft flanks. My eyes centered on that small violet pucker. I retrieved a bottle of massage oil from the drawer of the bedside table and poured some of it into my hands.
“So lovely,” I remarked as my hands roamed freely over your thighs and buttocks, massaging you in slow, regular strokes. Your breath now came in soft pants. I leaned over and let the saliva pool at the bottom of my lip before it dripped down to coat your cleft in a pearlescent sheen.
“Mmmm…” you murmured. Lust pooled in your eyes as you watched me work. My view of your handsome face was framed by your spread legs and your arms dutifully holding yourself open.
My tongue brushed against your tight coil, and you twisted like a silk ribbon against the sheets. I lapped at the pool of saliva with long, languid strokes that caused your tremulous bud to pulse, too shy yet to bloom. My hands kneaded the backs of your thighs, until at last, you relaxed, and my tongue made its first foray into your body.
“Henri….” you uttered, long and drawn out and hardly articulated at the end.
“You don’t have to be quiet.” I sensed you were trying to muffle your sound.
“What about Lucian and Seneser?” you questioned through half-lidded eyes.
“Ignore them.”
I wanted you unbridled and uninhibited, to be selfish with your desires. I speared you again with my tongue, so that your back arched, and your mouth uttered a lovely melody of swears. You squirmed beneath me, and I knew that both pleasure and discomfort were causing you to make such contradictory movements.
“I’m going to use my fingers now,” I said after a while, and when you didn’t object, I slid one thick digit inside you. The expression on your face was exquisite, your gasp a strangled howl. I drove straight for your gland and curled my blunt finger to stroke it. A cry tore from your lungs, sweet agony that carried across the room and echoed in my ears.
The door opened behind me, and I swiveled to see Lucian standing there, an alarmed look on his face.
