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Clint’s breath breaks above me, and the sound goes through my entire body.
I take him deeper.
His hand, heavy and shaking, finds the back of my head. His fingers slide into my hair, and the trembling pressure becomes direction.
I give in and let him set the rhythm. There’s no dignity left to defend, and I have no interest in finding any.
His thrusts are rougher than I expect, control already gone.
I hold his thighs to steady myself, feeling muscle jump under my palms.
My towel falls open. My cock is hard and free. I stroke it with a frantic lack of grace that would embarrass me if I had room left for embarrassment.
Clint moans, low and broken. His hand tightens in my hair.
The back of my head bumps the wall, cushioned by his fingers. I barely feel it. My world has narrowed to his body, his breath, the heat of him in my mouth, the wild pulse of my own hand moving faster because I’m not outside this anymore.
No longer watching. I am here, taking him. Letting him take. And I’m loving it.
Clint’s hips stutter. His voice tears open above me. Not a word, but a sound too raw to belong to Clint or HotnReddy or any name he uses that distinguishes human from animal.
He comes hard. I feel the first pulse against my tongue, then the flood fills my mouth. I tighten my lips around him as if to keep the moment from ending.
My own release hits, shocking and wild. One leg kicks out across the hallway tile as I come.
His cock pulses in my mouth one more time.
When it’s over, there’s nothing at first but breath. And then the terrible knowledge that the wall between fantasy and real life is gone.
We stay like that for a while, breathing too loudly in the narrow hallway, as if stillness might undo the part where this happened.
Clint’s hand slips from my hair.
I look down because looking up feels impossible. My cock is softening in my hand. My cum is on my stomach, my fingers, and a thin line splashed across Clint’s shin.
Jesus.
I am forty-three years old today. A man on his knees.
Happy birthday, Paul.
Clint backs toward his bedroom. He looks at me, face flushed, mouth open.
He points at me with a shaking finger. “Stay out of my show.”
The words are rough but not shouted. That makes them worse. I nod because speaking would mean hearing what I sound like after what we’ve just done.
He goes inside and shuts the door. The click lands softly in the hall.
I stay on the floor, lips tingling, mind numb. Tasting him.
Nothing is separate now.
Chapter twenty-nine
Poisoned
Clint
