He pumps furiously.
His hips jerk.
His stomach tightens.
The tendons in his forearm pop.
His free hand gropes at his upper thigh.
“Open,” he orders, not looking down.
My mouth gapes. My tongue stretches out over my bottom lip.
He groans. It’s primal, and vibrates right through me as hot strands of cum splatter my chest, throat, and cheek.
Some hits the corner of my mouth.
I lick it up and swallow it fast.
“Look at you,” Carey rasps as his hand slides one final, slow drag.
I don’t move.
The room smells of us.
He drops to his knees between my legs, and uses two fingers to smear everything higher until I feel him write his name in cum across my pecs.
He kisses me then scoops his seed from my cheek and pushes it between my lips. Eagerly I suck his fingers and his eyes light up with that mean little light I crave so much.
“Don’t clean yourself,” he says.
I nod; my voice broken, my tongue salty and dumb.
He drags his fingers through a stripe on my neck and I lick that clean too, eyes on him, because I can’t tear them away.
Carey lets out a pleased hum and wipes his hand on my stomach like a towel.
My pulse won’t slow.
The door is still unlatched.
We’re out of our fucking minds.
He leans over to plant his palm next to my head, his hair falling forward. “Even though you were a good boy, you’re still gonna sleep like this,” he tells me. “Marked. Mine.” Then he cups my face and kisses me. Slow, tasting himself.
He pulls back to study me, then smiles, satisfied that he’s made me peaceful.
“Carey,” I murmur, because I need him to know what he just did for me, but he hushes me with his thumb against my lips.
He glances to the door, then back to me. “Don’t touch yourself. If you wake up hard, you wait.”
“You’re cruel.”
“You like me that way.”
He steals one more taste then climbs off the bed and back into his pajamas.
After turning off the closet light, he returns to my side. “Sleep,” he says. “I’ll close the door behind me.”
