Shattered Glass(109)

As much as I wanted this—fantasized in vivid detail about the feel and the taste of him—it took serious resolve to wrap my hand around his cock.

The feel was familiar, and that took the edge off my anxiety. It also helped that I was aroused. Excruciatingly so. My tongue rolled along the top of my mouth, anticipating the slide of velvet skin and slick of precome. It wasn’t the nine inches every gay ad peddled—for which I was grateful. The length was still a problem, though. More than six in—

“Did you forget the lyrics?”

“Huh?”

His mouth tilted in a smirk. “If you’re going to break into song, we’re going to get arrested.”

I checked my position, realized I’d been standing there with my mouth half open, holding his dick like it was a microphone. “I’m deciding how this works.”

“The word ‘suck’ should give you a clue.”

My eyes never left his cock. “This relationship can only take one smartass if it’s going to survive.” Pornos and previous blow jobs were all I had to go by. They montaged in my head, trying to give me instructions. Lick the base. Slowly slide the tip of my tongue along his shaft on the way to rimming the head. Fondle the balls. Pump the shaft.

Too many instructions.

A single, clear drop glistened in the slit. My mouth watered. Start there, my brain told me. Right fucking there.

His smirk grew. “I—” My tongue dipped into the slit before my mouth closed around the head of his cock. Whatever he was going to say was lost in the hiss of breath pulled through his teeth.

I sucked hard, hollowing out my cheeks and drawing a long, “Fuck,” from Peter. Swirling my tongue over the tip, I twisted my hand at the base, stroking up.

His head tipped back. “Fuck,” he whispered again. “Oh, fuck.”

My heart was nearly wrecked from the speed of its beat. His pulse was beating just as raggedly along the vein my tongue nestled against. It suddenly became less about slot A with tab B, and more about making Peter moan louder, jerk his hips like that, catch his breath, bite his lip.

In the heat of the moment, I spat on his cock, breath toying with the wet head, attempting a porn-quality blow job. I held his hips, swallowing more of his length, no hesitation, seeing how much I could take. When my gag reflex kicked in, the rhythm changed. It became a slow bob up and down, wetter and wetter, teasing, screwing with him, until, with every breath, he gasped out a curse.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He fell gently back onto the hood, knee tensing under my hand. “I’m gonna come.” I ignored the warning, grabbed hold of the base again and pumped, lips sealed around his cock. I winced internally, preparing for the taste of come. This was for him, I reminded myself. His fingers clenched in my hair and yanked back hard. My mouth slid off with a wet pop just as his body tensed, air exploding from his lungs like gunfire. He held my face still against the tip, come spilling onto my mouth and chin. The strong scent soared through my nostrils. He shuddered the rest of his breaths, hand dropping from my hair.

His orgasm was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

Before I could say something witty, like “Nngh”, he sat up, grabbing my hair again. I watched, mesmerized as he squeezed his cock dry, pressed a wet thumb into my lips and smeared the come on my mouth and cheek. My eyes widened as he moved in for a kiss.

His breath heated my lips. “Lick it off.” It was a taste I’d have to get used to. It was definitely not ambrosia, but the way Peter stared at me intently while I licked my lips clean was. I wasn’t sure what to feel, other than…claimed. I obviously liked it, my cock was hard enough to drill concrete.

I wiped the rest away with my sleeve and leaned in to his mouth. “Going to pee on me next?”

He licked the remaining come off the underside of my lip and fed it to me with his tongue. My cock called a timeout, begging for mercy. “Only if that’s what you’re into. Not my thing,” he said, sucking at my chin while unbuttoning my pants. All functioning was centered below my waist, so it took a moment for my brain to catch up to his actions.

“No strings,” I reminded him, a gentle hand on his wrist.

He bent forward whispering in my ear. “Unless I want them.” My pants fell to my ankles.

A sauna couldn’t stop my shiver. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer. “Leave your jacket on.” He pulled down my briefs to mid-thigh. “I have a price tonight.”

“It wasn’t coming on my face like we were shooting a scene from Peter Does Austin?”

He grinned, unbuttoning my shirt. I loved that he got my sense of humor—or attempted humor. “You look good in my spunk.”