Page 69

He’s taking me so perfectly, his body opening for me like he was made for this. I add a second finger, stretching him carefully, and he groans, a deep, guttural sound that makes me want to hear it again and again.

I push both fingers deep and curl them toward his prostate, searching for that magic spot inside him. He bucks up, groaning, and I know I’ve found it.

“Does that feel good, baby?” I ask, my voice low.

He doesn’t answer because he can’t. Instead, he’s making beautiful sounds of pure pleasure, and I’m completely addicted to them. I want to record them, so I can play them back forever.

This is what I’ve waited for since the first time I saw him at St. Silas: to have him like this, making sounds he’s never made for anyone else, just for me.

I drizzle more lube on his hole, watching it run down, and then I let him fuck my fingers. His hips move in a desperate rhythm, chasing the pleasure, and I just hold still, letting him take what he needs.

God, he’s perfect.

Then I add a third finger.

“F-ffuuuuck,” he cries out, and I pause, checking his face. But he’s not pulling away. He’s pushing back, trying to take more.

“Still feel good?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

I reach around with my other hand and wrap my fingers around his cock. He’s rock hard, leaking onto the bedspread, and when I start to stroke him in time with my fingers inside him, he completely falls apart.

I jack him off into the bedspread, working him with firm strokes while I fuck him with three fingers, curling them against his prostate with each thrust.

He comes hard, shaking and moaning, his whole body trembling. His ass clenches around my fingers, rhythmic pulses that make me imagine what it would feel like around my cock.

Oh my God. Someday.

I don’t stop fucking him with my fingers or stroking him until he tries to pull away, oversensitive and spent.

Then I hold his hip to keep him still while I slowly pull my fingers out, watching the way his body releases me reluctantly.

He falls to the side, away from the wet spot, breathing hard.

I go to the bathroom to clean up, washing my hands as I try to calm down. My cock is aching, demanding attention, but I want to see what he’ll do. If he wants to.

When I come back, he reaches for me immediately, pulling me on top of him.

He kisses me, soft and sweet, and my heart does something I’m not ready for.

And then he slides out from under me and off the bed, sinking to his knees as I turn over to watch him.

Oh fuck.

Cameron Rhodes, the boy I’ve been obsessed with for years, is on his knees in front of me. He’s looking up at me with those big brown eyes I’ve cataloged in my mind a thousand times but never thought would look at me like this, with actual want, actual need.

He strokes me first, his hand moving slowly, and I realize I’m holding my breath. I force myself to exhale. His fingers wrap around me, and I think about how many times I’ve imagined this scenario.

And then he leans forward and teases my tip with soft flicks of his tongue, tentative, experimental, and the sensation is electric. He’s not rushing. He’s dragging this out, and I’m already losing it, my hands clenching into fists because I want to grab his head and push deeper. I make myself wait for him to decide.

I groan, unable to hold it back, and I’m embarrassed by how desperate I sound.

And then he takes me all the way down his throat.

No gag reflex. Nothing. Fuck me.

It shouldn’t be possible for someone who’s only done this once before. I stare down at him. How is he doing this?