Shattered Glass(65)

“What are you doing?” My voice cracked on an unsteady breath.

“You’re hard.”

“Yeah well, I keep trying to explain to my dick that you’re a lying, manipulative whore, but it has selective hearing and chooses to focus on that last part.” I immediately regretted saying it. Hurt flashed in his eyes. But Peter never gave me any emotion for long.

His hips pressed against mine. He was hard, too. My brain fogged and my hands moved of their own accord to his hips, pulling him closer.

“Try to think of me as a person, Austin. I know that’s a novel idea for you, but I’m not just a whore.”

I wasn’t sure why he felt it necessary to say that while rocking his hips into mine. “Peter…?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up.” My fingers closed around the back of his neck and I pulled him into a kiss.





Frotting Should Replace Baseball as the National Pastime

Our lips clashed together, teeth clacking, making me wince and him grin. I’d had better delivered kisses, but the Fourth of July had fewer fireworks than this one. Just one more incongruous Peter-phenomenon in a list long enough to satisfy Santa’s naughty roll.

The slight rock of his hips opened my lips for an intake of breath. His tongue swept in to steal it away. I delved fingers in his hair, gripping it in a fist and pulling him tighter to me. He responded by nipping my bottom lip and rubbing his cock harder into mine.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Peter ordered bending his elbows to cradle around my head. He scooted us both down the couch.

“I’m older. I should be on top,” I said stupidly.

He laughed gently, skimming a hand down my side, his lips trailing heat across my jaw. He paused, his breath damp and hot along the curve of my ear as he whispered my name. Then he pushed hard with his hips, my zipper and his pressing together almost painfully. My brain skittered to a halt.

“Yeah. I know. I’m shutting up.” Okay. I could handle being a homo. Clothes on and rubbing against each other like teenagers was the best pre-sex experience I’d ever had. Sadly.

“I’m going to make you come without even touching your cock,” he promised.

“Oh, God. You’re a control freak,” I groaned, pulling harder at his hair. He nipped at the skin on my neck. Every touch of his lips was like kindling. I slipped my hand from his hips and down the back of his pants, more heat from his skin to my palm.

“You’re seriously…making…me consider…a gag.” He rolled his hips, making my back arch with the zing of heat that shot from my groin up my spine. He thrust again, and my other hand clenched into a fist.

“Now who’s talking…Oh, Jesus…” I forgot what I was going to say as he trailed a tongue from collar to earlobe. Done talking. Couldn’t through the moans anyway. And somehow in the middle of all that, I wrapped my legs around his waist and began rocking into him.

Control was never my issue. Not in bed, not in life. Overthinking was my problem, which was what I was doing as Peter made me realize what I had missed by repressing who I was.

Do I move my hand up or in? Am I supposed to stick my fingers in his ass? He’s on top. Does that make me the woman? What do women do in this situation? They never stuck their finger in my ass, that was for sure.

“Stop thinking,” Peter whispered. How he knew was anyone’s guess. Experience? Or my twitching hand in his pants was more likely.

“I can’t reach,” I laughed. Delightfully, he laughed too. Though both of us shut up as he covered my lips and sought my tongue with his. The smell of cinnamon enveloped my senses, but it couldn’t overpower the tang of sweat. My hand moved up his back, slipping under his shirt then back down again seeking to map out every inch of his damp, warm skin. His breath quickened as did the pace of his hips. He curled his tongue around mine, sucked at it, drove me to slamming my hips against him until our lips were wet from breaking apart with the force of our rubbing.

My fingers twisted and tangled tighter into his hair, then started to cramp, but the pace of his hips wouldn’t allow me to unclench them. I used that hand, instead, for leverage to hold his mouth close. My legs locked him tight to my hips, the friction between was insane, an inferno ready to explode. Until it was overshadowed by the sensations in my groin. Toes curled, hips stuttering, breath held, I came quietly, with a clipped moan and a deep shudder.

It took Peter another few minutes, which time I used to explore his jaw with my mouth and teeth. My hands concentrating on his skin, the pockets of muscles tensing and shifting along my palms. Soft skin, wet from perspiration, rough with stubble—and he even tasted of cinnamon.