Page 129 of Make Me Mean It

Because he’s figuring me out.

Me.

His finger works deeper in a slow rhythm while his tongue sweeps over the head of my cock, and my hips start stuttering up into his mouth before rocking down against his hand.

Jesus Christ. Heat coils at the base of my spine, dragging everything tighter as I fist the sheets beneath me. “Fuck, Con, I’m gonna—”

His mouth disappears before I get the rest out, and the loss rips a sound from my throat that takes me a second to recognise as a fucking whine.

My head drops back against the mattress as my cock jerks uselessly against my stomach, throbbing while the orgasm that had been right fucking there starts slipping away.

“Fuck.”

My chest heaves.

I look down at him, ready to tell him exactly what kind of fucking asshole stops there, and then another finger presses into me.

The complaint dies as my thighs tense around him. “Shit, wait—”

The stretch catches me off guard, not painful, just more than I’m expecting. More pressure, more fullness, more of Connor slowly working me open somewhere no one else has ever fucking touched, and apparently that thought does something to me because my cock twitches against my stomach.

Connor’s mouth brushes the inside of my thigh, soft enough to make my stomach pull tight, completely at odds with the steady pressure of his fingers.

“Want you to come on my cock.”

My stomach clenches so hard it almost hurts, the image landing before I can stop it. Connor inside me while I come apart underneath him, those fucking blue eyes watching every second of it, knowing he’s the one doing that to me.

His fingers shift inside me, curling differently, brushing my prostate, pleasure ripping through me, my whole body bucking against the mattress.

“Fuck!”

Connor does it again, and this time my hips move, rolling down into his hand to chase the same fucking spot.

There.

Jesus fucking Christ, right there.

A groan tears out of me, broken and embarrassingly loud, and Connor makes this rough little sound against my thigh.

My cock is leaking against my stomach now, every pulse of it demanding attention, and I reach down because I need something, anything, just enough friction to take the edge off.

Connor smacks my hand away, shaking his head, and a pathetic sound catches in my throat, his eyes darkening.

Oh, he fucking likes that. Fine. If Connor isn’t going to let me touch myself, I rock down onto his fingers instead, harder this time, chasing the pressure every time he pushes back into me and making him deal with exactly what he’s started.

“Con, please.”

Jesus. I don’t even know what I’m begging him for anymore, only that whatever he’s giving me isn’t enough. I want more of it. More of him. Fuck, I think I just want everything.

His mouth closes over the inside of my thigh, sucking hard enough to leave another mark before his teeth catch against the sensitive skin. I hiss, but Connor only drags his tongue slowly over the sting, soothing it away, and my eyes squeeze shut because the little bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s learning me way too fucking quickly.

“Need you,” I pant again, and this time there’s no embarrassment tangled up in it, no instinct to take the words back or pretend I mean anything less than exactly what I said. I fucking need him, enough that my body arches towards him, giving him whatever the hell he wants from me.

Then his fingers slide free, and the sudden emptiness drags a frustrated curse out of me.

My body clenches around nothing, trying to pull back fingers that aren’t there, and the frustrated sound that leaves me would be humiliating if I had enough functioning brain cells left to feel humiliation.

I grab a fistful of Connor’s shirt and drag him up my body, needing him closer, needing his weight pressing me into the mattress and his mouth somewhere I can reach it.