Page 10 of The Turning of the Tables

Elliot pushed my jeans down, then kneaded his hands against my knit-covered ass, pulling his hips against mine and forcing me to stop kissing his neck. It was my turn to groan at the feel of his erection pushing out against his jeans rubbing up against mine, still confined by my trunk-style underwear.

Rough-skinned hands pushed their way into my shorts, cupping my ass cheeks and squeezing. “My turn,” he growled, and then his tongue and teeth were on the side of my neck, scraping gently enough not to leave a mark, at least until he was past where my collar would have fallen. Then he nipped at my shoulder, drawing a gasp.

“Stop?” he asked me, his breath hot on my skin.

“God, no,” I blurted, and I felt more than heard him chuckle as he went back to what he’d been doing.

I ran my hands up the broad muscles of his back, breathlessat the way his shoulders bunched as he squeezed my ass. Our hips ground together, and I decided I’d had enough of his jeans, working open the buttons—his jeans didn’t have a zipper—of his fly so that I could push his jeans down, exposing the stretched soft knit of the black cotton beneath desperately trying to hold back his straining cock. I wasn’t generally much for tighty-whities, but the little black number Elliot had on was definitely doing it for me.

I slid my hands along his hips, gasping again as he bit against my collarbone.

“Enough,” he growled, and I was about to askenough what?when he shoved my shorts down and spun me. I barely managed to not trip over the damn things, kicking a foot to shed them and the pool of fabric that had been my khakis as he pushed me into the aisle between the beds. Then he spun me, one hand on my back and the other at my hip as he pushed me down so that I stood with my hands on the bed, my naked ass facing him. When I lifted my head, I noticed that he’d lined us up with the long mirror in the room—from where I was bent over, I could see both of us—the slight flush spread across his upper chest, the heat in my own cheeks.

Much as I normally don’t like to look at myself in mirrors, I had to admit that the idea of watching Elliot fuck me made my cock jump. Behind me, he was stripping off his little black underwear, and I wished I could see him, but my own body was in the way.

Maybe he saw where I was looking, I don’t know, but he pressed up against me, letting me feel heat and hardness against the sensitive skin behind my balls. I might have whimpered a little, closing my eyes.

Then he moved back, and I heard the drawer open and close, heard the telltale sound of a plastic cap, and felt thattingling electricity of anticipation as I opened my eyes again, watching him as he slicked up his fingers, his eyes glinting in the dimness of the bedside lamp. And then my eyes shut again as he began to tease me with one finger, running it around the rim of my body, almost tickling, but it was too erotic for it to feel ticklish.

I felt my back arch almost involuntarily as my hips tried desperately to get more sensation.

“That’s it,” I heard him breathe in that rough baritone. “Relax for me.”

As though relaxing were even remotely anywhere near possible. Not because I was nervous—but it felt like every muscle in my body was tight and trembling with anticipation. But I tried to relax the specific muscles he was gently stroking, letting him know that while I might be tightly wound, it wasn’t because I didn’t want him to do what he was doing.

“That’s right,” he murmured as one finger eased its way in, and I expelled a rush of air from my lungs at how unbelievably good it felt. He wasn’t rushed, wasn’t pushing me, wasn’t trying to get right to the ‘deed,’ so to speak. He was making sure I was ready, making sure that I got as much pleasure out of this as he did.

I moaned as he rubbed the inside of me just the right way.

“That’s it,” he repeated, and his already-slightly-rough voice was rougher and deeper. A glance in the mirror told me that his cheeks were flushed, his eyes bright. And then he added a second finger, pressing gently and deep in a way that felt like he was somehow trying to touch my soul.

I could feel my legs trembling as he pressed in, then withdrew, then pressed in again, shifting the angles of hisfingers so that he wouldn’t hurt me, but also driving me nearly insane with want.

“You’re so ready,” he whispered, bending over my back, one hand running up my spine so that I arched into him like a cat. “Tell me what you want,” he ordered.

“Your cock,” I managed. “Please.”

He growled again, low and resonant.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a condom wrapper and the expulsion of breath as he rolled it on. In the mirror I could see him looking down, then watched as he stroked himself a few times—lube, I assumed—before raising his eyes to my body, open and aching.

For just a moment, he lifted those hazel-gold eyes to mine in the mirror and crooked that half-smile, then lined himself up. I watched, forcing myself to keep my eyes open as his cock pushed in, slowly and steadily, pressing past the ridge of muscle, stretching me farther than he had with his fingers, but not so much that it hurt. Enough that I could feel the stretch, feel the edge of the burn, and feel the fullness of him pushing deeper. His eyes closed as he breached me, powerful fingers tightening on my hips as his head fell back, strands of black and white hair having come loose from his ponytail hanging on either side of the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

I’d thought he was striking before—he was beautiful now, the way a god or demon must be, angles and power and strength. I moaned as he pushed himself in all the way to the hilt, his hips meeting the sensitive skin of my ass.

God, he felt good.

And then he started to pull back, and the sensation of friction became more powerful than the stretch and fullness of his girth. He’d used enough lube that he moved through and in me like silk, the feel of him all the thickness of hiscock against the muscles of my body. My own erection ached, the feel almost like an itch, but I didn’t want to come too soon, so I wasn’t going to touch myself—not yet. I needed more of this, more of Elliot thrusting into me, more of the scent of his skin, the shine of sweat on his chest in the dim lamplight, more of the feel of his hands pulling my pelvis back onto his length as he pushed forward.

I wasn’t sure I would ever get enough, but the pressure was becoming unbearable, the breath coming out of me in little gasping pants as he thrust into me again and again.

“Are you close?” he gasped out.

“God, yes,” I groaned back.

He slammed into me two, three more times, hard, sending my heart into my throat. And then he pushed into me one last time with a low moan, bending over so that I could feel the heat of his chest against my back, and I whimpered when one of those rough hands closed around my cock, stroking me only a few times before I fell over the edge, feeling him buried deep inside me as I throbbed out my release into his calloused fingers.

I was so going to break Rule Two.