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“Fuck, you’re so beautiful, Drew… you feel so fucking good. Need to taste you.”
“Suck me dry. Please,” I gasp, desperate for his mouth and not caring if he knows it.
With the speed of a sloth, he moves away from my side to the space I make for him between my spread thighs. He watches me jerk myself a moment before taking over, first with his hand, then with his glorious wet hole of a mouth.
“Oh fuck yeah—yeah, Peach, oh fuck… Suck that cock for me…”
He groans around my shaft as he swallows it up, tongue twining around the length as he goes down. Our eyes meet, and I take in the wrecked, dark-eyed sight of him, my cock stretching his pink lips wide, and that’s all it fucking takes. I’m coming down in his throat in seconds, fighting the urge to slam myself against his vocal cords.
He slurps and gulps, sucks and swallows, and our gazes remain locked as he demands more cum from my cock with every draw of his mouth. I grip him by the hair, not letting him look away, and not wanting this picture of him to fade.
One word pounds like a drumbeat through my skull as I stare at the lewd sight of him wrapped around my dick. Mine. Mine. Mine.
He pops off with a gasp, and I release his hair. Sitting back, he stares down at my body, flushed, heaving air, cum on my side, a wet dick, and his fingernail marks on my chest. Shit.
He runs his thumb along his lower lip and meets my gaze, then asks, “Blow jobs not getting old yet?”
I shake my head, not quite capable of speech.
He sighs.
Am I boring him?
With a knee, I nudge him hard enough to give him the impetus to move away from me. He gets off the bed and stretches, his lean body going taut as his long arms reach over his head. Damn.
Never thought something like that would turn me on, but here we are.
“I’ll go see if the laundry’s back.”
He’s gone a few minutes before I’m able to get moving. Finally, I roll off the bed, take stock of myself, and decide I need a shower. I grab my things from my bag on the bench at the foot of the bed.
One more night—tonight—of work, and then I’m off for two. I probably have plans with Jericho I’ve forgotten about. I need to follow up with the plumber, get a haircut, and otherwise catch up with my life outside the Upper East Side.
Sounds kind of grueling to be honest. Like I’m wondering if anyone needs a shift covered, which isn’t like me at all. Except I could use the extra money. And there’s always…
Olivier reaches the top of the stairs with a dry-cleaning bag in his arms. He hangs it on a hook on the wall near him. “If you have any questions about how the shower works…”
“I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
He gives me a shrug like, Good luck, chump. “Just saying.”
I shake my head and turn to enter the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Five minutes later, while I’m sustaining second degree burns from the scalding water, I’m realizing what a colossal mistake not listening to him was. I finally manage to work out all the gears and levers, but if I wind up in here again, I’ll have him get the water running first and maybe ask for a tutorial.
Lesson learned.
I try to keep my cursing to a minimum, but when I come out of the bathroom in my fresh t-shirt and shorts, he’s sitting on the bed with a satisfied smirk.
“How was it, then?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He laughs.
I manage to quiet him when I say, “I’m sure you have dinner plans, but do you mind if I order something before I go to work? I’ll stay out of your way.”
“What way?” he asks, his tone now having gone from gleeful to morose.
“Look, I’m just hungry.”
