Page 61 of Right Up His Alley

Then Truett fists my cock, and it’s all over. Two pumps matched with his thrusts pushes me over the edge I’ve been precariously dangling over. My orgasm rips through me with a ferocity I’ve never felt before. I let out a guttural scream before coming hard in his hands and onto my stomach.

“Fuck, Ezra,” he growls. My body goes lax in his arms as he continues to fuck me. He tightens, cursing under his breath as he pulls out of me. I watch him with half-lidded eyes as he rips the condom off and strokes his own cock. Once. Twice.

And then he’s coming too.

Hot, thick ropes of cum land on my stomach, chest, and chin. He paints me with his release, marking me as his own. I’m a mess and reek of our combined sex, but I fucking love it.

I watch as Truett pants slowly, coming down from his high. He looks over my body appreciatively, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

“You look so sexy covered in my cum, baby.” He smirks, running a finger through the mess he made. When he gets to my lips, he nudges them apart and feeds me our combined release. My eyes roll back as I eagerly lap at his finger.

“You know,” he murmurs, grinning down at me. “We have this expensive-ass room all night. It would be a shame to not thoroughly use every square foot. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Despite my spent state, heat rushes to my dick once again as I grin. “Well, we wouldn’t want that. Would we?”

“No, no, we would not,” he agrees, capturing my lips in a quick kiss. “But I’m no animal. I’ll give you ten minutes to recover.”

“That’s generous of you, but I only need five.” I smirk.

We only last three minutes until his cock is back down my throat. The rest of the night we remain consumed with each other. In the morning, I will feel the soreness. But I can’t bring myself to care.

“Wake up, cutie. What would you like to do today?” I spread the curtains wide and let in the soft Dallas morning. The sky is a pale blue, and the sun shines through the thick windowpane, a golden ray bouncing off Ezra’s tired eyes. He looks wrecked, but in the prettiest way. My fault, of course.

Coming back to my hotel room to celebrate was easily my favorite part of the night. The sex—god, the sex—was incredible. I took control in ways I’ve never done before, and Ezra completely surrendered to every touch, thrust, and all I had to offer. And I had a lot to offer. We went at it for hours, pushing each other to the edge until our bodies were wrung out, muscles aching, too exhausted to move. Waking up this morning, sore all over, feels like a badge of honor—a delicious, aching reminder of everything we did to each other the night before.

Ezra groans into the pillow, “Five more minutes?”

“Nope. You drove three hours to see me throw a ball down a lane, so now I’m repaying the favor. Whatever you want to do today, we’re doing it. Museums, shopping, restaurant hopping, maybe a tattoo parlor?” I shoot him a look, eyebrows raised.

He lifts his head just enough to squint at me. His hair’s a mess, wild like he just bowled a seven-ten split using his head instead of a ball. “What if I want to stay here all day and just watch you walk around in your boxers?”

I laugh. “Tempting, but I want to do something you really want to do. And we’ve done each other enough for one day.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin, and I give him a quick wink in return. He hesitates before speaking up. “Did you say tattoo parlor?”

“I did.”

That gets him moving. He rolls over, scratches the back of his neck, and stares up at the ceiling like he’s really thinking about the offer. “Alright,” he says finally. “I want barbecue. I’m craving Judy’s, but obviously we can’t have that right now. And then I want to go to Dealey Plaza.”

“Isn’t that where⁠—”

He interjects, “Where Kennedy was assassinated? Yeah. I’m dark. I have weird interests. You should probably know this about me.”

My smile refuses to disappear. “The JFK tattoo on your arm and the ones I’ve seen in your sketchbook make a little more sense now.”

“And then maybe…” He pauses. “Maybe we can stop by a tattoo parlor? I know a guy who owns one on Elm Street. We can go check out some of his new work. See what he’s up to?”

I grab his suitcase from the floor, tossing it onto the edge of the bed, then head toward the bathroom. “Murder, brisket, and tattoos. You got it, babe. Get dressed.”

I coat my toothbrush with paste as he mutters, “I knew the three-hour drive would be worth it.” I poke my head out, with the toothbrush sticking out from my mouth, and blow him a kiss. No matter where we go or what we do today, giving him this time and making him happy is all I can ask for.

Walking down Elm Street, there’s a light breeze fighting its way through the muggy Dallas heat. The harrowing walk through Dealey Plaza was both fascinating and depressing, but seeing Ezra light up, telling me all the historical inaccuracies and conspiracies of the Kennedy assassination, made up for the slight discomfort in the darkness of it all. It even helped me understand him a little more when it comes to how he perceives sacrifice—especially when it pertains to family, as opposed to country, in the perspective of JFK.

My stomach’s full from barbecue, but I’m still savoring the taste of smoky brisket and baked beans as we move past sleek, modern skyscrapers next to older, more historic brick buildings. It’s a mix of old and new, which is a vibe very reminiscent of what Ezra and I want for Spare Time.

Ezra nudges me with his elbow, excitement practically radiating off him. “Here it is! Ink Weekend.” He points to the industrial black storefront, the windows decked out with tattoos of every style imaginable. “The guy who used to own the studio near Spare Time moved here, opened up this shop, and sold his old place to Damien. Or something like that. He’s a good guy.”

I squint up at the sign. “Ink Weekend, huh? Are they not open on weekdays?”