I couldn't wait.
The need that had been building for days—for years—hit critical mass. I dropped to my knees.
His dark jeans sat low on his hips. I reached for the button, pulled it open, the zipper coming down beneath my fingers. No underwear. The fabric parted and I pulled the jeans down his thighs, and Diego's cock came free, half-hard, the weight of it hanging between his legs.
Ten inches, maybe more. The shaft thick and straight, the skin the same warm brown as the rest of him, the head defined and angular. Even half-hard, the size of him was impressive.
I leaned forward. Placed my tongue flat against the underside of the base, and licked. One long, slow stroke from the root to the tip, tracing the length of him, the taste of clean skin and heat and the first salt-sweet trace of arousal. I felt him harden against my tongue. The shaft thickening, lengthening, responding to the contact with a speed that sent a pulse of heat straight to my own cock.
Diego's exhale was audible. A rough, broken sound, his stomach muscles tightening visibly, his hands finding my hair—not gripping, resting, the fingers threading through the strands with a restraint that I could feel trembling.
"Fuck." The word escaped him quietly, slowly, involuntarily.
I took the head into my mouth. Closed my lips around the ridge and sucked. Slow. Deliberate. Working down the shaft in increments, my jaw stretching to accommodate his thickness, the heat of him filling my mouth, the taste intensifying as he hardened fully and the first bead of pre-cum hit my tongue—salty, warm, the taste of a man who'd been wanting this for as long as I had.
My hands moved from his thighs to his ass. The muscle tight and round beneath my palms. I gripped him. Pulled him toward me. The message clear: move.
He understood. His hips rolled forward, his cock sliding deeper into my mouth, the head pushing past the back of my tongue toward my throat. I relaxed. Opened my throatcompletely, let the gag reflex dissolve into nothing, took all of him.
His cock slid into my throat. All the way. My nose pressed against his lower abdomen, the full length of him buried in me. He held there for a beat, his entire body trembling, a moan escaping him that was low and raw and sounded like it had been pulled from somewhere deep.
"Jesus, Logan." His voice was wrecked. "Your mouth.."
He fucked my mouth with slow, long strokes, pulling almost all the way out—the head resting on my tongue, my lips tight around the ridge—then pushing back in, all the way, the thrust measured and controlled. I reached down. Unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them as far as my kneeling position allowed. My cock was hard, straining against my thigh. I wrapped my hand around it and groaned around Diego's shaft, the vibration making his hips stutter.
I stroked myself as he fucked my mouth. His hands tighter in my hair now, the restraint fraying, the rhythm building. I looked up.
His eyes were locked on me. Flicking between my face—my mouth stretched around him, my eyes on his—and my hand on my own cock. The look on his face was hunger. Pure, undisguised, the flat combat control stripped away entirely and replaced by a want so raw it made the air between us vibrate.
His hand tightened in my hair. He pulled me up. Not roughly but firmly, the strength in his grip leaving no room for negotiation. I rose, his cock sliding from my mouth, the wet sound of the release obscene in the quiet room.
He pushed me toward the bed. Half-dominant, half-playful, the push carrying enough force to mean it and enough gentleness to make it a question I was answering with every step backward.
"On the bed." His voice was low, rough, stripped to the essentials. Pure Diego—no wasted words, all intent.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress and I sat, and he was on me before I'd finished landing—his hands on my jeans, pulling them down and off in one motion, the fabric joining his on the floor.
His mouth found my cock in one sharp, decisive motion. He took me to the root in a single drop, his throat opening around my thickness, and the heat and the pressure and the sudden totality of it drew a groan from me that was loud and unfiltered and entirely beyond my control.
"Oh fuck—" A low sound that came from my chest and carried through the room and probably through the wall. I didn't care. I'd spent enough time being quiet about Diego Rosas. That was finished. "Fuck, Diego!"
He sucked me with an efficiency that matched everything about him—precise, thorough, the movements of his mouth and tongue and throat carrying the same focused intensity he brought to everything. He re-learned my thickness in real time, his jaw adjusting, his technique adapting, and the adaptation was its own kind of intimacy.
Then he lifted my leg. His hand curving under my thigh, pushing my knee toward my chest, opening me. His mouth never leaving my cock, the suction steady, his free hand coming up to his own mouth. He wet two fingers. Brought them down.
The first touch against my hole made my entire body lock. The shock of it wasn't pain. It was sensation, complete and overwhelming. The pad of his finger circling the rim, testing the tension, applying a patient pressure that found the point where resistance became permission and pushed through it.
His finger slid inside me. Slow. The second knuckle passing the ring of muscle while his mouth pulled on my cock in long strokes that made it impossible to separate the sensations—thefullness inside me and the suction around my cock merging into a single, overwhelming current.
A second finger. The stretch. The fullness increasing, his fingers curving, finding the spot, and the bolt of pleasure that shot through me when he pressed against it pulled a sound from my throat that wasn't a word, wasn't a moan, was something between the two.
He was fingering me and sucking me and the combination was building toward a detonation I couldn't afford yet. I reached down and touched his head, the dark hair warm under my palm.
"Stop." My voice was barely functional. "I'm close. Too close."
He slowly pulled his mouth off my pulsing cock. Pulled his fingers carefully out of my ass. Looked up at me from between my legs with the flat, heated expression of a man who'd just been told to stop doing the thing he was best at and was deciding what to replace it with.
He decided fast.
