Guys have seen my cock before, and I’ve been proud.
And there was one time that I fucked a girl at a party, and when I caught a guy staring at us, looking right at my dick, it only spurred me on to fuck her harder.
And the temptation of having a tongue on my cock right now is unbelievably strong, even if I have no clue how it would feel if the tongue belonged to a man.
What’s so bad about that? A mouth, a pair of lips?
“I think you’re confused,” he says.
“I am. And I still want you to do it. Because I don’t think you will. I don’t think you’ll get on this concrete roof in those expensive fucking pants. How much were they? Five hundred? Six?”
“Probably about three thousand,” he says calmly. “Loaned Armani. My stylist will flip if I give them back dirty.”
A fire ignites in my chest, like a long-disused engine suddenly sparking to life.
“Do it,” I tell him.
My whole body feels like it’s in a chokehold. But I have to see how far he will take this. How far he’s willing to go, just because I’m asking him to.
He steps up near me and enters back into the light of the neon sign.
Then he actually does it.
He takes one knee in front of me, and my heart pounds in my chest.
Holy fuck.
Half of his face is back in shadow, now, as he kneels before me on the ground. And I’m a little horrified to find that my cock twitches seeing him in front of me like that.
It feels likepower.
The only kind of power I love. The feeling of someone wanting me, someone craving to touch me, so much that they’re willing to get on their knees.
He’s handsome in a way that veers into territory where he’s almost beautiful, and maybe my mind is short-circuiting.
I like this.
It’s fucking insane, and I like it.
“Listen,” I tell him. “I really wasn’t going to jump off the roof or do anything crazy. I just came up to smoke and then felt guilty because I promised I would quit. I don't need pity, if that’s what you’re doing.”
“Glad you didn’t light that cigarette,” he says, looking up at me. “Because if you did, I’d have asked you to share, and I quit years ago.”
“Really?”
He scrubs a palm over his face before revealing his pretty eyes to me again. “Why do I keep telling you things? I never even told my family I used to smoke. ”
I peer down at him, trying to figure something out. “How old are you?”
“29.”
He scans my body. I feel like a king being surveyed by a suitor.
“Not that old,” I tell him. “Eight years older than me.”
“You’re 21. Damn, I’m good at guessing ages,” he says.
I bring a hand to his jaw, touching him for the first time since he kneeled. I stroke my fingertips beneath his chin, then brush lower onto his throat.
