God. He’s trying to kill me.
Fighting through my post-orgasm fog, I finally notice he’s squeezing his hard cock through his jeans, and I feel selfish. I swat his hand away before straddling his thighs.
“Wanna blow you.”
“Shit. Okay, yeah. Let me just…” He fumbles to disconnect his pump, setting it gently aside before tugging his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself.
“I won’t last long,” he warns, voice ragged. “I nearly came in my pants just from eating you out.”
His words burn through me with an agonizing heat. My mouth dips to the head of his cock, and I slowly sink down, forcing my throat to relax. His girth stretches my mouth in a way that makes my spent cock twitch.
I bob my head up and down, tongue flat against him. He gazes down at me with heavy-lidded eyes as his hips stutter beneath me. I suck him nice and slow, fisting the bottom of his cock.
I grip his thighs, feeling the muscles twitch beneath me. His fingers find my hair, tugging gently and guiding me down until my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base.
“God, Hunter,” he pants. “You’re so fucking—so good at this. So goddamn beautiful.”
He says it like he means it. Like he wants me to believe it, too.
When he comes, it’s with a broken, strangled moan, his whole body trembling under my hands. I swallow every drop, my tongue teasing the sensitive head until he flinches.
When I pull off, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flop down next to him. His sweat-damp chest rises and falls with slow, focused breaths. He turns to look at me with a soft, blissed-out smile.
“So good,” is all he says, voice syrupy and sleepy.
He pulls me into his arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head. His fingertips draw lazy shapes on my back.
“I like you, Hunter,” he says quietly.
It’s not a shocking admission, but it still takes my breath away. Because the first few times I met Mason, I thought I hated him. I thought he was just another small-town douchebag with perfect abs and an ego to match.
But since then, the evidence has proved me wrong. Mason is one of the kindest humans I’ve ever met.
“I like you too, Mason.”
We stay tangled like that until the mess between us turns sticky and uncomfortable. With a reluctant sigh, we separate. Mason stretches, his muscles pulling in every direction, and his gaze snags on the potted Monstera by my window.
“What?” I ask.
He narrows his eyes at the labeled popsicle stick. “Really? You named this plantKeanu Leaves?”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “What? He’s tall and handsome. Just like Keanu Reeves.”
Mason shakes his head with a disbelieving grin, leaning over to kiss me one last time before heading toward the bathroom. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his voice is warm.
A terrifying realization dawns on me: I’ve never felt more at ease with someone. Breaking this off is going to hurt like hell.
Chapter Twenty
There’s a picture of Mason’s dick on my phone, and I don’t know what to do with it.
It’s not a full nude, but it’s explicit enough to make me hard just from looking at it. He’s wearing those sinful gray sweatpants that drive me crazy, tugged low on his hips to reveal a glimpse of hair. The outline of his erect cock is clearly visible, snaking down his thigh as his veiny hand grips it through the fabric.
He sent it to me a few minutes ago, and I’ve been staring at it ever since—like maybe if I study it long enough, I’ll suddenly develop the knowledge of how to respond without embarrassing myself. He said he’s busy and can’t come over tonight, but that he misses me. I guess this is his way of saying he wants to try… sexting? Is that even the right word?
God, it’s probably painfully obvious I’ve never done this before.
My palms are sweaty as I sit cross-legged in front of my floor-length mirror, the soft light from my desk lamp making my reflection look even more flushed. I’m pantsless, wearing only an oversized T-shirt and tight black briefs. I try folding my knees under myself and arching my back, sticking my ass out like I’ve seen in those thirst traps online.
