Shattered Glass(108)

Looking up, I whispered reverently. “You’re exquisite.”

His muscles quivered against my lips; his feet dropping from my back as he curled his fingers into my hair. His throat moved in an unsuccessful attempt to swallow a moan; it was almost too loud when it escaped. Loud and plaintive. “So damn gorgeous,” I continued, gliding my hands further up to bare his chest.

“Austin,” he murmured, arching his back and pulling my mouth closer to his skin. The passive order drove the blood from my brain to my cock.

My tongue dipped into his belly button. He writhed in response. I kept him squirming plunging in and out, licking deep, until his moans became grunts and his hips undulated against my chest. Climbing higher, I tasted every freckle, every inch of skin on my path to the darker, larger brown discs on his chest.

He inhaled sharply as my teeth grazed his nipple, fastening his fingers into my scalp as I gently pulled the metal ring with my tongue. He panted each breath with every light pinch or pull of my teeth. My eyes flew up to judge his reaction.

The moonlight illuminated the ghost of lashes trembling against his cheek. His rabbit-quick heart beat against my lips, hammering in time with my own. His hips began to rock faster in invitation. I dropped my hands lower, tracing the carved edge of flesh that led into the waistband.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Anything,” Peter gasped evasively. He didn’t push my head as I expected, though his fingers relaxed and tightened in my hair until the gelled strands softened in his grasp.

“Tell me,” I repeated. I wasn’t going to be satisfied unless he had asked me for something. I’d prefer begging.

“Austin?”

“Peter,” I said, smiling evilly while plucking teasingly at the button of his shorts. He moved fluidly, propping up on his elbows. I almost lost it when his lip disappeared between his teeth. Then I recognized the crinkling of his eyes. In that second an intrinsic puzzle piece locked in place.

Peter wasn’t shy. He wasn’t being coy or seductive. In Peter’s world, everyone wrested a price for an action. Peter was calculating what price I would extract and deciding if he could pay it. He never asked for anything for himself because he was already paying for everyone else.

It was on the tip of my tongue to reassure him that this was as much for me as it was for him, but it wasn’t. I was nervous, inexperienced and knee-buckling scared. I hid it well because he was so damn fucking hot that my brain kept firing synapses to the area that controlled my cock. Fear had a tight grip on my emotions. Standing in the middle of a parking lot wasn’t helping matters. The feel of his skin against my palms; the subtle trembles he couldn’t hide; the way his chest heaved from being overly aroused, all that did a lot to maintain my erection. Barely. My heart beat erratically, not only from arousal or the public display we were putting on; I was wholly terrified to take that last step. There wasn’t a drop more of denial available after tonight.

“No strings, Peter.” It hurt to say those words. I wanted strings. Strings and chains and possibly glue. Superglue. Triple-bonding, weapons-grade epoxy.

It wasn’t the acceptance of a blow job stopping Peter. It was the asking for it. And, more specifically, it was me he had to ask.

I waited, patiently.

His eyes flickered. The blue disappeared in a spill of black, and the tip of his tongue curled up to lick his front teeth. “Suck my dick, Austin.”





Gay Sex Three, Straight Sex Nil

When those words computed, I would have testified in court that my cock jumped in an attempt to escape my zipper.

Taking a deep breath, I glanced around us, checking to make sure there wasn’t a group of videographers ready to upload our tryst into Internet infamy. I heard music a street over; it faded quickly, and the hush of the dark morning settled back around us. Sweat pooled in the small of my back and trickled down my neck. I took a deep breath of summer air and reached for his shorts.

My body refused to allow me a suave, steady hand for my first blow job. He was wearing my shorts. Shorts I was familiar with. And my fucking fingers were behaving like chopsticks. I shakily fumbled with the small plastic button, and I accidentally—on purpose—twisted it off in frustration and then went for the zipper.

To my ears, the zipper was audible in space. Peter’s breath held, his stomach still and tense. Either he was anticipating what was coming, or his zipper was really loud. I met his eyes.

Anticipating. He was definitely anticipating.

His tongue poked between his teeth, daring me. I held his gaze while slowly pulling his boxers down. He lifted his hips, bringing the heat from his body closer to my face. I shuddered a breath and scooted the boxers down to his thighs. He lowered back to the car. My hands made a shaky trek over dips and curve of his hips, stopping when I felt the tip of his cock brush the edge of my thumb. I looked down.