Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
And what would Cissy McPherson say?
Deflowering this ten-thousand-dollar rug?
Give or take a thousand. For all I know, it’s just some old rug passed down the generations with no value.
Ugh, why did that just make it worse?
“Wyatt …”
I look at him, coming back. “Sorry, I just—”
“I wanna do things with you.” He speaks confidently, though his voice is low and quiet. It takes me by surprise. “I wanna make you crazy. Make you moan again. Make you react. Anything that doesn’t involve those plastic smiles you put on for everyone else to tell them how fine you are when you and I know damned well you need more than what they’re giving.”
Distant music is playing now. I hear the bass.
Then muffled, faraway cheering.
“You think I haven’t done this before?” he asks me.
I stare at him. “I have no idea what you’ve done.”
“Apparently a lot more than you think.”
I’m suddenly picturing Diego seducing ten guys a day. Taking his auto shop customers into back rooms to “check their oil”. The sharpness in his eyes right now, revealed only by the light from the window, tells me a thousand stories without words.
Maybe I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.
This doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s got needs. And he’s done things before. And he wants to get me off. To do something I like. To make me moan.
And … “Did you just call my smiles plastic?” I ask belatedly.
His big hand glides up the side of my body, casting electricity everywhere. It takes a lot of effort not to already let out that moan he wants so much. “You want me to put some fingers in you? Does that do it for you, Wyatt? That what you want?”
We’re just two men right now.
Two men with needs.
In a room.
Alone.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He doesn’t smile. He takes those same fingers I just sucked on and puts them in his own mouth, working them over. I watch. His eyes stay on mine the whole time.
Then he slides them out. Slips them down my underwear.
Between my cheeks.
And to my hole.
I gasp.
He doesn’t just try to force them in. I realize instantly that he knows exactly what he’s doing. He teases me down there with the finesse of someone who’s experienced, knowing exactly how to move his fingers, listening to my every reaction. I have no choice but to give in to him completely, drop my jaw and rock my eyes back with the way he so expertly drives me crazy.
But the more he teases me, the more I relax down there, too.
Coming undone in a way I’m not sure I can articulate.
I never saw myself as an uptight person. Quite the opposite, actually. But the more he teases and tortures my hole, the more I feel these tight ribbons of stress and responsibility letting go one at a time. Snapping apart. Detaching. Releasing.
My eyebrows squeeze together as I try to convince my eyes to focus on his, to not keep rocking back.
The look on his face is so fucking intense. So focused on me.
So determined.
Like a machine with a given duty. Yet as warm as a man. Very warm. As if despite the cold, dark fireplace at our side, it might as well be fully lit and spitting embers between us.
The more he teases me, the more I relax.
And the more leeway his fingers get.
I barely notice.
He doesn’t stop. My body doesn’t fight him at all. I’ve become willing to let him do whatever he wants to me.
But the more I get into it, the less he holds back.
And his fingers are having so much fun down there.
Something must signal on my breathless face, because his lips descend on mine the next instant, and I’m a goner.
His hips grind into me, gently at first.
Then gathering force.
His fingers never stop.
He might as well be fucking me on this rug right now.
Except something tells me if he was, I’d be feeling it twenty times more than I am right now.
I’d be howling so loud, there’d be no mistaking what’s going on in this room.
We’d be the thunderstorm.
His lips move to my chin, still kissing, then to my neck, and to my chest. Now my breaths are turning into noises I can’t suppress. His surprisingly slippery fingers work into me little by little, only as deeply as he can manage without real lube—which is more than enough, considering I’m already rock hard and losing my mind.
Then my cock slips out of my underwear.
He’s holding it.
His warm mouth closes around the head.
Slides down, engulfs its length.
“Diego,” I moan out, unable to hold it back.
He says nothing. How can he? His mouth is full of me, his soft tongue gliding up and down my cock with rhythmic perfection. I don’t know when I do it, but my hands are on his head, grasping whatever I can of his hair, buzzed so short as it is.