I scoot back in horror as Wyatt grips me by the shoulders.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” I blink up at his equally stunned expression.
Wyatt isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my friend. My fuck-friend. No wait that’s too crude—he’s my lover. I’ve taken a lover. That sounds so much more refined than fuck-friend, although technically I could never say either in front of my mother, so I don’t really see the difference. Mommy’s face smiles back at me from the twisted theater of my mind. Ack! I swat my mother out of my brain like shooing a fly. It’s so not kosher to think of one’s mother when you have a perfectly good penis staring you in the face. Besides, Wyatt and I have drawn a quasi-platonic line in the sand. What we have between us is simply for physical purposes, sort of like a good yoga session or a really fantastic Zumba class. I wrap my mouth around him again and try my hardest to take him all the way to the root. I get about a third of the way and try to hide the fact my gag reflex is going off like a touchy car alarm.
I give another few good-old college tries—I’m pretty sure the person who coined that phrase would be spinning in his grave if he knew how it’s being applied at the moment. Then again, if he were once a frat boy himself, maybe not.
I have to say there is a level of intimacy you achieve with someone when their most prized member is buried deep (halfway at least!) in your mouth that you just can’t get with an everyday handshake. I plunge in deeper, forcing myself not to gag, and my eyes water painfully as if I’ve just had acid thrown in my face.
Wyatt offers a haunting moan that lets me know at the least I’m making him feel good—real good according to the tone he’s exuding.
His fingers dig into my hair, swirling it around, driving it into my face. Okay, so it’s a little like a dizzying dry shampoo. I make a mental note of this as a part of me tries to factor in how I can finagle this into an article.
“You don’t dick around, do you?” He groans again as he pushes himself ever so much deeper.
A laugh bubbles from me while his third arm is still snug in my throat, and the gagging effect is ten times more pronounced.
A horrid retching sound—or, more honestly, a very unattractive, yet odiously prolonged burp emits from deep inside me—and, instinctually, Wyatt whips me off of him before I can bring my own emissions to the party. And why was that so fucking loud? Is there a bullhorn feature built into my throat that I don’t know about? God, I sounded like some prehistoric creature! Like a dragon who was about to light his dick on fire. Of course he pulled away. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he were afraid of me. Hell, I’m afraid of me at this point.
I take a full moment to cringe properly. Shit! Shit! Shit! Can’t I do anything without humiliating myself? He probably thinks I’m full of all sorts of interesting gasses tonight. He’s probably sorry he ever offered me that third slice of pizza. Clearly I’ve violated our contract.
The fireplace roars, enticing me to jump on in and I seriously consider the proposition.
“Come here.” Wyatt pulls me up, stripping me of my oral duties for the time being—the time being forever. I can’t say I blame him. I’m sure no man wants his dick vomited on—like ever. And here I was, equipped with a verbal threat. Leave it to me to turn a belch into a hate crime.
He grimaces a moment. The exact facial expression you never hope to see when standing naked in front of a man.
“Sorry.” He cups my cheek in his hand. “I’d hate to end the party before it ever really begins.” His devilish grin catches the light, and I’m reminded that I’m about to make love to the single most gorgeous man on the planet—that is if the offer still stands. If he’s not afraid to hear any other wildly auditory bodily function on my part. “I want to kiss you, is that okay?”
“Kiss?” My chest bucks with relief. “I just introduced your joystick to my uvula. I don’t think you need to ask about kissing me.”
His eyes widen a moment as the fire reflects in them. “Joystick?” he mouths.
I bite down hard over my lip as my fingers float up and down his back. Wyatt runs his hands down my shoulders, cupping my hips before sliding over my bare bottom and offering up a firm squeeze.
“Are you ready to do this?” He’s studying me in this dim light, looking for the extra assurance that I’m down for the big game.
“What is this a cross examination? I thought you were going to ravage me?” I give an impish grin. “You have my permission by the way.”
Wyatt hardens his gaze into mine. Something in him turns, and I can see his primal devices going off like a flare. He seizes my face with both hands and crashes his lips to mine. His tongue spears into my mouth, hot and wild, on a mission to penetrate me, to make me his in a beautiful way that I have never known before. He explores me thoroughly with a fevered rush as he backs me to the sofa.