Page 86 of Ghost’s Awakening

Crack. Right cheek. My mouth shut on the name and my whole body shook, and he didn't stop. He ate me hard and loud, his stubble scraping the inside of my cheeks, and the sting of it went straight up into my cock. I was leaking onto the floor. I'd been in gunfights with a steadier pulse.

He stood and turned me around, and I was against the wall with my cock standing straight up between us, and my back was cold on the wall. He grabbed the hoodie at the back of his neck and hauled it off in one drag, the shirt under it coming with it, and there he was. All of him, wide and hard, the scar through his eyebrow and the dark eyes under it locked on me.

I worked the button of his jeans with my mouth on his chest, found his nipple with my tongue and dragged it across, and the sound he made went through the wall behind me. The jeans went down his thighs on their own weight, and there was nothing under them.

"On your knees, stealth op." His voice had dropped to the bottom of him. "Suck my cock."

I was down before the sentence ended.

I'd known since the first night that I liked being told. By him. The man they called Ghost, kneeling on a hard floor because a cook had told him to in that voice. I wanted to know how much more of that I could take.

I took him slow. My mouth over the head, wide, and down. Heat and weight on my tongue, my jaw working for it. I went down as far as a mouth goes and then further, where the throat opens, and there was no fight in me, there never had been, and I felt his cock slide down into it until my nose was at the base of him.

"Fuck." His hand came into my hair. "Look at you take it. You're built for this, Jake, you're—God, your fucking throat⁠—"

I moaned around him, deep, and his thighs went hard against my palms.

His hands came to the sides of my head, fingers spread over my ears, and he started to move. Slow first. Then faster. He fucked my mouth with his hips, long strokes, nose to skin every time, and I knelt there with my eyes up and took every inch of him with nothing in me but want. Spit ran down my chin. My eyes watered. My own cock ached between my thighs without a hand on it, and there wasn't one part of me that wanted him to stop.

He pulled out of me in one long slide and stood there with his cock wet and jumping. "Fuck, Jake! I need you now. Right now, or I'm going to cum down your throat and I don't want—not yet, I want⁠—"

I got up. He caught my hand and walked me backward to the bed.

I climbed onto the edge of the mattress on hands and knees and pushed my ass up and back toward him, forearms down, spine bent low in the middle.

Then I looked back over my shoulder.

Every channel in my head fired at once and every one of them was screaming something different. That I was on all fours. That I was wide open. That the man I'd killed for was standing at the foot of the bed looking at my hole. That I had never in my life felt this exposed and had never once been this hard. The stealth op from the most dangerous club in Nevada, ass in the air, looking back at the cook who was about to fuck him stupid. My ears burned. My cock dripped onto the sheet.

Both of his hands landed on my ass at the same time.

"Jake." He breathed it out. "Your ass. Woah⁠—"

"You like that? Show me how much you li—oh fuck!" My head snapped up.

He'd gone in with his tongue again before I got the sentence out, straight in, his face buried in me, wet and deep. My arms shook. My cock hung under me leaking onto the sheet in a thread, and I pushed back into his face and didn't care what I looked like doing it.

"Caleb." I got it out. "Caleb. I need to try. Please. Put it in me."

He stood, and his mouth and his chin were wet.

"First drawer." I tipped my head at the nightstand. "My side."

He pulled the drawer and looked in it. The corner of his mouth went. "Irish hook you up with this too?"

"Just put your dick in me, Caleb." My forehead went down onto my arms. "I need to know how it feels."

I heard the cap, and I looked back again, because I couldn't not, and watched him slick himself, his fist sliding up his own cock and the lube shining on it in the light from the window. Then he squeezed more onto his fingers.

Two of them came against my hole and pressed.

The lube was cold. His fingers were thick and warm and they went in slow, one first, then both, and the cold and the heat hit at the same time and the groan that came out of me came from somewhere under my gut. He worked them in me, turning, and my legs shook, and I pushed back onto them and he let me.

Then the fingers left, and something wider pressed where they'd been.

He went slow. I felt him hold there with the head of his cock against me, and I felt him decide to be careful even though I'd told him not to, and my throat went tight for a second. Irish had told me four things at a corner table with Nolan pretending not to listen. Breathe. Push out, like you're pushing him out. Don't clench. You'll think it's too much for about five seconds, and then it isn't.

I breathed. I pushed out.