AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My belt tugs against my waist, making me blink out of my tunnel vision. Cameron’s gaze is more focused than a diamond cutter as his trembling fingers unfasten my belt. My legs are full of sand. If I squeeze my glass any tighter, it will break and shatter in my hand, but I stay still. So damn still.
He’s undressing me. I can’t recall if I’ve ever let anyone undress me, but I have a feeling that I’ll remember this occasion. He’ll see my cock in a matter of seconds.
This is all my fault. That fucking office bathroom. My peeping. That’s what planted this misconception about me in his head, and now it’s come full circle. Oddly, though, it feels like there’s a rightness to it. I’ve already seen his. Now, he’ll see mine.
But I never touched him. What is he going to–
The air is sucked from my lungs at the feel of sweaty fingertips reaching through the opening of my boxers. His hand wraps around my shaft.
My eyes slam shut at the heady sensation, the weight of my cock in his grip. Skin to skin. Man to man. Connected. No longer strangers.
When I open my eyes, the sight of my thickened cockhead peeking out past Cameron’s gentle grip unveils a secret that has my face awash in flames. I’m hard. Undoubtedly and incredibly hard. Suddenly, my championing for hand holders seems like a faux pretense for my compliance and my compliance a mask for my arousal. My rationale tumbles like dominoes. It’s him—-I’m hard because of that look on his face again.
I stare at him, looking at my newest mishap. While he can’t seem to take his wonder-filled eyes off my cock, I can’t tear mine from his reaction to me. Lids drooped, with his breath ghosting my tip as his gaze canvases every curve, every vein, studying me, memorizing my shape. I’m the only person I know who pays that much attention to anything.
His glistening tongue darts out to wet his lips. Those baby blues flicker up at me once more, a shadow of caution in them. Why have no one’s eyes ever fascinated me as much as his before? When he inches forward, his mouth a mere fraction away from connecting with my heated flesh, my pulse skitters to a halt.
Stop this, Pete. You need to stop this, some sensible voice of reason demands. You’re not gay. You’re not what he thinks you are. You’re not what he wants.
He pauses just before my flesh, making me flinch. Did I say that out loud?
Gaping down at him, I wait in terror to be scolded for my deception, but it’s innocence that greets me when his gaze connects with mine again. His grip flexes on my shaft at the same time he wets his lips.
“Tell me if I’m bad at it. Okay?” he whispers.
I wait for that sensible voice in my head to make its way past my lips, but nothing comes out. There’s only silence and Cameron Fairway’s bottomless blue eyes, like a magnetic well, dragging me into freefall.
I move. I finally fucking move. Why that movement is my head, nodding, I don’t know. Buried deep beneath that sensible voice that’s gone silent, croons one that’s greedy and shameless. Because you want to know if he’s bad at it.
Soft, warm lips encompass the aching tip of my cock, pulling a strangled grunt from my throat. Something slippery works its way down the underside of my length and stays there.
Is that…
It’s his tongue.
Gasping for air, I gawk, blinking through spots in my vision. The weight of my cock rests on a soft, damp bed inside his mouth as he whimpers around it. He’s… weighing me… or holding me. Just holding me there in his mouth like his tongue is a cock pillow. Eyes closed, his nostrils flare on a deep intake of breath that he exhales in the form of a long-cockblocked sigh.
I’m being savored.
This inexperienced, skittish younger man has just shown me the secret that would have saved every relationship I ever had. I’d have fought tooth and nail to keep anyone who treated me this way.
Those stretched lips tighten and make their way toward my base, sheathing every inch of my flesh in hot, wet heat until his nose brushes the coarse hairs of my pelvic bone. Another hungry whimper vibrates around my cock, and I hear a familiar inhale. He’s somehow managed to make breathing sound filthy, a kind of filthy that I don’t mind.
I don’t realize my glass has slipped from my hand until it clatters to the floor. Those eyes startle open, and his oven of damp heat ejects me from its hold. My fingers dive into his hair and grip instinctively, but what instinct it is, I have no clue.
I know me. This has never been me—thirsty, carnal, demanding. Who is this person that doesn’t want him to stop?
I could drown in that look of his, a clear request for guidance, an eagerness to please and take pleasure–because he was enjoying what he was doing to me. It’s so damn mystifying to me that he was, but I force myself to loosen my grip. Whether I did so a second too late, or he took my desperate grasp as the green light he needed, I may never know, but his mouth envelopes me again. This time, there’s more fervor, more hunger, more pressure.
My breath comes out in choppy gusts as I blink at my hand, entwined back in his sandy hair. It’s rocking to and fro with each of his determined movements. Connected. No longer strangers. Most definitely no longer strangers.
His noises fill every space in the room. They’re all I can hear. Moans, whimpers, sighs, grunts. I even catch filthy little slurping sounds as he suctions, building an ungodly pressure in my balls. I detest slurping. Why is it not detestable right now?
Shit. I’m so hard. There’s only one thing that can happen, only one result of this act that’s becoming more urgent by the second. I’ve never spilled down someone’s throat. I would never expect or even ask anyone to receive that, but my conscience wavers.
He said he wanted to taste a man. Taste how? How much?
I don’t know the rules. What are the rules? Do men do that to each other?
