“Bernard! Wiener?” I laugh as his thumb rubs along my neck.
He smiles, so adorable. “I take it that’s a no?”
I arch a brow. “Not one I wanted to put in my mouth.”
He laughs the private Bernard laugh that cracks open his whole face. "Okay. Great, well, a penis is pretty straightforward. There’s really no way you’re going to be bad at this.”
I glance down, and his crotch twitches under my gaze. He’s quiet as he reaches into his waistband and pulls his shorts down. That thick, beautiful cock springs out at full attention, looking absolutely incredible and, yeah. Delicious. I decide I’m going to take him into my mouth, not just stroke him to completion.
He guides me. Verbally at first — what to do with my hand, how to grip, where the sensitive spots are. His voice is steady, instructional, the same tone he uses when quizzing me. I start with my hand around him, learning the shape and weight of him, the way his breathing changes when I adjust pressure.
"That's — yeah." His head tips back against the couch. "A little tighter. So good."
I pay attention, focused. Bernard makes sounds that send shock waves through my pajama pants, and his hand flaps on my shoulder like he is seizing. I bend at the waist, stick out my tongue, and taste the salty tip of his dick where the foreskin retracted. He emits a noise, and it’s so hot I know I’ll never forget the sound. Same with the groan from the night he climbed into bed with me. I glide my fist down and swirl the flat of my tongue around his tip.
"Ella — fuck — you don't?—"
"Teach me," I say, and he moans. I don’t wait for instruction. I somehow know what to do here, with Bernard’s cock in my mouth. I want to make this man feel what he made me feel, to draw those sounds from him, to make his face contort in pleasure. And I see now how very good it feels to make someone else feel good.
I lower my mouth around his shaft and feel the gentle weight of his palm on my head, his fingers in my hair. I glance up and see his composure is gone. His hips jut up from the cushions. His face is a mess, neck tendons flexed. It’s the most erotic thing … I’m overcome with an urge to touch myself.
I like this. I like the power of it. I like that Bernard Houser, who has been so controlled, so careful, so focused on my pleasure, is coming apart under my hands and my mouth. I like that I'm doing this to him. I slide a hand down the front of my pants just to take the pressure off while I work.
His voice is a sob. “Ella, I'm going to—you should?—"
I don't pull away. I want this. I want to taste him, feel him shoot into my mouth. And oh, he does. He comes with my name on his lips and his hand clenched in my hair and an expression on his face that I have seen only once before, in the window of the aerial studio, when I looked up in triumph and felt, for the first time, powerful.
He's breathing hard. His eyes are closed. I swallow and release his still-hard cock. His hand loosens in my hair and slides down to my cheek, cradling my face with a tenderness that almost undoes me.
"Where the hell did you learn that?" he whispers.
"You just taught me."
"I taught you some basics. That was not a 101 blowie.”
I sit up, wiping my mouth, trying to look composed and probably failing. "I told you. I'm a fast learner when someone teaches me the right way."
He pulls me against his side, careful of his knee, and wraps his arm around me. I tuck my head against his chest and listen to his heart — slowing, the percussion of a man returning to baseline. My hand rests on his stomach. His hand rests in my hair.
Neither of us says anything about tutoring. Neither of us mentions the right guy.
"Your ice pack needs swapping," I eventually murmur against his chest.
"In a minute."
"In a minute it'll have been too long."
"Ella."
"What?"
"Just … stay here for now."
His heart beats against my ear. His fingers trace slow circles on my shoulder. The apartment is warm and dark and quiet, and it feels, for one dangerous moment, like home.
Chapter 14
Howie
