His lips were wet with saliva when he said, “You can fuck my mouth. I’m good. Come on. You can do it.”
If that wasn’t the hottest fucking thing I’d ever heard anyone say, then I didn’t know what was. I ignored the strange curl of jealousy that rolled in my stomach, knowing I wasn’t his first or second or third. He could do this because he’d done it before. I pushed it away, though, before it could get any further (JustinJustinJustin). He wasn’t mine then, but I thought he might be now, so I let it alone and nodded down at him.
His mouth went back to my dick, and I pushed experimentally into his mouth, a shallow thrust. He waited for me to go at my own pace, but his fingers tightened on my hips and I knew he wouldn’t wait for long. I tugged on his hair and he moaned, muffled around my cock. It vibrated in my skin and my balls tightened.
I pushed forward again, farther this time, fingers against his scalp. The slide of his tongue was wet on the underside of my cock, the minute flick of it against the slit almost making my knees buckle. I thrust again, pushing as far as I could go, his throat constricting and loosening as I pulled out and pushed back in.
I’d never felt anything like it before, the wet heat. The feel of his head in my hands. His nails digging into my hips and ass. One of his hands came up and he tugged gently on my balls and I thought I would shoot off right then, but I was able to stave off, though I wouldn’t last much longer.
“Stop,” I finally gasped. “Just stop and—”
He pulled off immediately, his lips swollen. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and there was something amazingly erotic about him, this powerful knight, fully clothed and on his knees while I stood nude above him, my dick wet with his spit.
“I was going to come,” I said. “I didn’t… not yet. I want.”
He seemed to understand my babbling because he stood swiftly, kissing me again. There was a slight bitterness on his tongue and realized I was tasting myself in his mouth. I chased after it, my hands curled around his nape as he rubbed up against me, finding friction and rutting into it.
“Naked,” I muttered against his mouth. “Why aren’t you more naked?”
“That what you want?” he asked me, kissing me again, then backing away. His eyes roamed hungrily up and down, taking in every inch of me. My first instinct was to hide, to cover myself, the heat of embarrassment crawling up my neck. But there was nothing cruel or mocking in his gaze. Quite the opposite, really. He looked as if he wanted to reach out and touch, but was stopping himself from doing so.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I want.”
He nodded once.
The shirt came off first and I remembered the day in the river, watching him bathe, the sun setting behind him on golden skin, the flex and pull of tissue and muscle. It was on display here again, except we were alone and in my room. Then felt like a dream, hazy and bright. Here, the sun was almost down and the colors were muted. Candlelight flickered behind him, shadows dancing along his arms and shoulders.
“The rest,” I said.
He moved slowly then, and if I put too much thought into it, I might have said he was performing. His hands went to the front, unfastening each button with nimble fingers. He pulled the trousers open, his pubic hair darker than the trail on his stomach. He brought his hands to his hips, inching the trousers down. I could see the base of his dick, then the length, then the ruddy head as it sprang free. It was slightly thicker than my own, and curve
d toward the right. I wondered at the weight of it, my fingers itching to reach out and touch.
He slid the trousers down his legs, bending over but never taking his eyes off of me. His thighs were covered in light hair and were corded with muscle. He let the trousers fall to his feet. He pulled himself back up to his full height. Lifted his right leg, shook his foot free. Did the same with the left. Kicked the trousers away.
And just stood there.
I said, “I’ll be honest. I’m pretty sure I want to write sonnets about your dick.”
He gaped at me.
“Dammit,” I said as I winced. “That sounded sexier in my head.”
He snorted and shook his head. “It was still pretty sexy. Sort of.” He brought his arms over his head, clasping his hands and stretching back. Muscles bunched and contracted all over him, the light from the candle moving over his skin as if it were made to do only that.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I said hoarsely.
“What?” he asked, cocking a teasing eyebrow.
“That,” I said, waving my hand at him up and down. “With your whole… thing. You’re posing.”
“Am I?” he asked, taking a step back away from me.
“Dashing and immaculate,” I insisted, taking an answering step toward him, not even caring anymore that I was completely naked and with a ridiculous erection.
“You don’t say?” Another step back.
“It was nice,” I admitted.