Page 24

“Push me away if you can’t handle it, Dean.”

There it is. My out.

Do I take it? No.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Hell, that wet, slutty mouth of yours feels good. Way too fucking good.”

Language, I want to tell him. Even though I can’t say a damn thing right now.

I make an “mph” noise around his dick, but it’s not as if he can understand.

Part of me wants to argue that I’m not a slut. But I guess I am, aren’t I? Our friend Simon would say I’m a whore, but I feel like saying the two are different is like comparing a frog to a toad. They both hop.

Mike thrusts into my mouth sharp and hard, while I’m gripping the bed sheets for dear life. This is probably the sloppiest blowjob of my life, including the one I gave Brennan for what could barely be called a job interview.

I’m about to tap out when he pulls away, leaving me gasping for air and trying to swallow my spit. “You’re such a mess, slut. Look at you.”

“D’ya think we could do this in a different position?” I ask on a cough.

I’m reminded again that I could have asked him to stop, but no. I asked him if I could suck his dick at a more accommodating angle. What on earth is wrong with me?

“Hang on, I’d like to try something. Put your head at the other end of the bed.”

So I do. Of course I do.

His hand on my cheek is too much like a caress. It’s like something from a romantic movie. All over again, I lean into his heat ‌. Even as he tilts my head back and to the side. Even as he climbs on top of me, his open zipper scraping my forehead until all of him is right in my face.

“This should be perfect,” he murmurs.

“For what?”

“Fucking your throat.”

Oh, hell. “Mike, I’ve never⁠—”

“You know what to do if you want me to stop.”

My only response is to curl my fingers again, gripping the sheets.

He slides in again. Deeper. Deeper, until he’s past that hanging thing in the back of my throat, and oh, God. The pressure is intense, the urge to cough him back out even more so.

“Yeah, there it is. God, that’s good. You feel amazing squeezing my cock with your throat.” He lays one hand on my shoulder and puts the other hand in one of mine. Maybe another way to signal him if I need to stop.

But I don’t. I won’t. Call it pride. Worse, it might be a stupid hope that one of these times something between us will change. That he’ll want it to be more than what it is.

I’d never admit it to him, and I might hate myself for clinging to false hope, but it’s true.

I’m not even sure when I started wanting that from him. What I first thought was hero worship became something very different. I only know there’s no one else in the world who I’d let push their fat rod into my throat.

For Mike, though, I sink into it, relaxing every muscle as I lose myself to the rhythm of my former best friend, the uncle of my child, entering my body for the first time. It’s a balancing act, my shallow breath against my urge to swallow.

Then, all at once, things get oddly peaceful. Sort of floaty, and calm.

When he finally pulls out I cough and gasp. My throat is sore. What am I going to sound like tomorrow?

I’m still wondering when he shoots his load all over my chest.

“Hmm. That’s good.” He runs a finger through it. “Open up.”