Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Turn around,” I tell him.
He obeys, likely because he thinks I’m going to do something naughty to him.
Nope. As if this is an everyday thing, I grab the soap and start lathering it up on his back. Even when I reach his ass, I go right up the crack with the sole intention of just cleaning him. He squirms a bit and gasps in surprise, but I go about it like it’s just business.
Again, I’m fulfilling my incessant desire to torture Ryan and mess with his already-horny-enough head while knowing full well what I’m doing.
Maybe I’m just evil-sexual.
Sadist-sexual.
“Turn around,” I order him again.
He does. Facing me, he looks up into my eyes, almost out of breath.
And then I start soaping up his hard cock. Ryan’s mouth shoots open as I lather him all up with the indifferent care I’d give when washing mud off a shoe. I even stare into his eyes while I do it, watching as all the sensations play across his face—emotions both tortured and pleasurable—as I thoroughly wash his privates.
Very, very thoroughly. What’s the rush?
After a quick rinse, I flip off the shower, grab both our towels, then proceed to dry off next to him. It’s just another day in the locker room, showering after a tough game in the merciless sun.
Except Ryan’s got a boner where he could hang his towel to dry if he wanted.
So do I.
“You’re a punk, y’know that?”
“Yep,” I answer. “And now it’s dinnertime.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re eating his delicious meal. Naked. And we can’t seem to stop staring at each other, no matter how many bites of succulent pasta wrap around our forks and slowly find their way past our lips.
Ryan can cook. My belly is happy.
Soon, I’m setting my fork down on an empty plate, then I fold my arms and lean on the table, watching as he finishes his dinner. Ryan lifts his brow at me as he chews. “You just gonna stare?” he mumbles through his mouthful.
“I’m just thinking about dessert.”
After his initial surprise, a pinch of smugness twinkles in his eyes. He swallows his bite, then lifts his chin. “You’re only getting dessert if you’re good.”
“I’m getting my dessert no matter what.”
“I have to make it first.”
“I’m right here.”
“But you’re not ready to be served.” He smirks superiorly. “Before I can bake the cake … I need to … knead the dough.”
I squint at him. “You don’t bake cake from dough, dude. Even I know that.”
“Don’t give me lip,” he shoots back. “I’m not finished with my dinner yet.”
“Take your time.” I rest my chin on my hands and continue to stare at him.
He takes one more bite, then helps himself to a sip of wine. After he sets down the glass, he tilts his head and murmurs, “How the hell did we get here?”
“Where?”
“To this. You and I eating pasta primavera and drinking wine, naked.”
I shrug. “Does it matter?”
“This isn’t us.”
“It is, now. And that’s all that matters.”
“But does it?” He fidgets with his fork, poking at a strand of pasta. “I mean, what is this between us, exactly? I know it’s only been a matter of days, really. But it’s also not been. This thing between us … maybe it’s been brewing since the day we met. I don’t know. Are you having any of these feelings, or is it just me?”
I reach across the table and put a hand on his, ceasing his fidgeting at once. His eyes flick up to meet mine.
“You think too much,” I tell him, “for a guy who’s not wearing anything at his dinner table.”
He swallows. “Y-You think?”
I smirk. “Yeah, bro. I think you think too much.”
“So what should I do?”
“Whatever you want. As long as it involves no thought at all.”
His gaze drops idly to my chest as his tongue runs along his bottom lip. Then his cheeks flush and he asks, “You sure?”
I tighten my arms over my chest, waiting.
The next instant, Ryan ditches the last three bites of his angel hair and descends under the table like a snorkeler. I experience half a second of confusion before there’s someone between my already-spread thighs.
And hot breath on my cock.
“I thought you had to ‘knead the dough’ first?” I taunt him under the table.
Just his soft breath wakes my cock up. I’m sure it’s pointing right at his face and his parted, expectant lips.
I’ve never had another man’s lips around my cock. Even with all my prodding and bravado, a part of me wasn’t expecting to experience this so soon. Maybe I need him to give me the massage first. Maybe, despite acting like an overconfident shit, I actually do need a bit of reassurance and comfort first before diving all in. Maybe we’re moving too fast.
I mean, there’s really no turning back after another man’s got his lips around your dick, right?