Page 73 of Crashing Tides

“It’s not mine, either,” says Duncan glumly. “I can’t see into the future at all.”

“The mirror just shows me nonstop blood,” I complain. “It’s like a—a blood waterfall. Or something."

“Um.” Duncan stares at me in alarm. “That’s concerning.”

“Creepy,” Jane adds, suddenly wary.

I shrug. “None of the other weird shit I’ve seen has happened yet.”

But that’s not exactly true, I realize with a chill. I remember the terrible storm on the night we plunged into the sea, the way dark water crashed against the cliff as I dropped from the ledge.

Fuck. OK, that was probably a coincidence. Besides, I haven’t seen any red-eyed ghosts yet.

“Um, try not to bleed out,” Duncan says, expression torn between worried and bemused.

He’s so damn cute like this, stirring his fork through his pasta, contemplative, determined.

“I won’t,” I say, and stuff another forkful of salad into my mouth.

I end up in Duncan’s room again a couple of hours later. His legs tremble as I work his cock in my mouth. I take him apart slowly, methodically, savoring every gasp, every shiver, every moan. His hands are in my hair. I fucking love it when he can’t help but tug me a little closer.

He absolutely refuses to manhandle me, which would be sweet if I weren’t trying to break his resolve. I want him to lose control. I want to know what he’s like when he’s half-mad with lust. More importantly, I want to know what it takes to get him there.

But he seems like he’s really enjoying this, and I don’t want to ruin it for him, so I just pick up the pace a little bit, moving from worshipful to demanding. It’s time for him to cum, I decide, hollowing my cheeks, bobbing my head with enthusiasm.

He lets out a sharp little gasp that goes straight to my dick.

And fuck it, I’m hard, I’m still wearing all my clothes, and he seems to like everything I’m doing, so I look up at him through my eyelashes and make a show of palming myself through my jeans.

That gets me the reaction I want: tense muscles, a strangled little, “Oh, fuck,” that I want to hear again and again.

It’s so good that I close my eyes.

His thighs are tense beneath my hands. I can feel him in my throat, a length and girth that I should probably be intimidated by. I inhale through my nose, relax my muscles as much as I can while I drag my tongue along his cock.

Then I pull back. “You can fuck me, if you want,” I say. My voice is kind of hoarse. I wipe spit from my lips, dive back in while he’s staring down at me, wide-eyed and so still that I’m afraid I’ve fucked up.

But no, he’s just short-circuited. His fingers curl in my hair, hesitant. I give an encouraging moan, and then he finally gives me what I want, and thrusts into me.

He’s careful, but I’m not. I dig my fingers into his firm buttocks and give him everything I’ve got until he chokes, “Dominic, I’m gonna⁠—”

I let out a hum and hollow my cheeks, and he spills into me with a long groan that will haunt my fantasies for decades. (Unless he does something hotter in the meantime, which he might.)

I pull back, plant a kiss on his thigh, then grin up at him, smug. I haven’t wiped my face yet.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re gonna have to give me a minute. I think you sucked my brains out.”

Exactly what I was aiming for. I can’t help but preen a little.

He grabs my hand, hauls me to the bed, manhandles my shirt off me (fuck, yes), runs an appreciative palm over my chest. The noise of approval he makes is enough to make me feel like I could bust out of my jeans. Heaven help me, I want him to be attracted to me, for reasons I can’t name. “You must work out a lot,” he says, and that’s not exactly sexy but I really like to be appreciated, so I flop back on the bed and nod an affirmative while flexing my abs.

He takes advantage of this opportunity to unbutton my jeans, pulling them down enough that he can release my cock, which pops free like it’s spring loaded. Then he straddles my legs, grasps me in his hand, and lunges to kiss me. Once I’m groaning into him, he pulls away, mouths at my pulse point, then down my chest, pausing at a nipple, which earns him a choked-off gasp. “Those are sensitive,” I say, and he grins wickedly, returning his mouth to one while tweaking the other. When I’m panting and fighting the urge to thrust up against him, he moves down. Licks over my abs while he thumbs the head of my cock.

Shit. Fuck.

Then he finally puts his mouth on me. The sound I make is undignified and loud. Felix, who lives next door, probably hears it. I don’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed. Duncan presses my hips into the mattress, licks a stripe up my cock, sucks the tip into his mouth, then swallows the whole thing.

Oh my god, he’s going to kill me. It’s going to be awesome.