Everything About You

That mantra cycled through my head to keep it at the forefront, to remind myself who and what I was now, versus who and what I was back then.

I stood barely inside his spread knees looking down at him with his face tilted up and his eyes intense. With each second that passed, they filled more and more with confusion. Until finally, his gaze dropped from my face to my waist as I slowly, and very deliberately, reached for my belt, then took my time unbuckling it.

The jingling of the metal buckle filled the space between us. Familiar music to our ears as we both relived all those times we frantically tore off each other’s clothes, no longer able to keep our hands off one another, no longer able to resist not touching each other.

Once the door was closed, everything flew out the window.

Our control. Our desires. Our worries.

Everything.

Until it was just the two of us. Touching, kissing, sucking and fucking. Our mouths and fingers desperate.

Our whispers, groans, grunts and cries surrounding us in a cocoon.

Back then, I knew him simply by his touch, his scent.

Back then, I knew when he was near me without seeing him.

Back then, I knew he wanted me the second his breath would catch.

Just like I knew what the noise at the back of this throat meant at that very moment.

With excruciating slowness, I lowered the zipper, then reached down and brushed a knuckle across the very short wiry hairs along his tense jawline before dragging the pad of my thumb across his bottom lip. His mouth parted and his warm breath puffed over my fingers.

He couldn’t hide the shudder that ripped through him and I doubted he’d tried. That reaction made me continue drawing my fingers up his cheek, along his temple and into his still damp hair.

I rubbed a smooth strand between the pads of my thumb and forefinger, remembering the feel of it. In the two years we were lovers, I had touched his hair a million times.

I had nuzzled my nose in it a million more.

But tonight I drove my fingers through it—once, twice, three times—while my gaze followed the path of my hand instead of meeting his eyes.

I couldn’t. Not right now.

Not yet.

Soon.

Because I already knew what I’d see in them.

I knew because if he didn’t want this, he could get up and leave. If he didn’t want this, his cock wouldn’t be so damn hard, causing his wet swim trunks to tent.

If he didn’t want this, his body wouldn’t be vibrating like it was.

If he didn’t want this, his breathing wouldn’t be so ragged.

But, the real question was, did I want this?

Did I want to give in to my wants and needs and in turn, crack myself open all over again?

I reminded myself to keep my guard up. I couldn’t let him break me this time.

Curling my fingers, I fisted his hair and put some pressure on his scalp by pulling slightly. “It’s your fault my date was cut short. It’s your fault I didn’t get what I wanted or needed tonight.”

The dilation of his pupils. The quickening of his breath.

The pebbled tips of his nipples.

More proof of how much he wanted me to touch him.

And all of it… Every one of his reactions made my mouth water, my heart beat faster and my own erection flex.

I kept a hold of his hair with one hand and drove my other down my boxer briefs, pulling out my cock and shoving my underwear down enough to tuck them under my balls.

I didn’t have to see it to know precum had beaded on the end and was on the verge of dripping and falling.

I knew because Tate now stared at my cock as it pulsed in my hand.

The second he licked his lips and glanced back up at me with a silent question on his face, I knew he wanted to take it into his mouth. To clean the tip off with his tongue. To taste the salty fluid he was only too familiar with.

I imagined his warm, wet mouth encompassing the crown as I began to stroke, not wiping away the precum like I normally would, purposely letting it dangle. Tease. Tempt.

But I would not let him have it. I would not give him that satisfaction.

“On your knees.” I tugged on his hair and took a step back, dragging him along with me.

His bare knees hit the ground hard but I didn’t care.

Pain would be mixed with this pleasure.

His pain. My pleasure.

Twelve years later and the tables were about to turn.

“Roe,” he whispered, staring up at me. His throat working, his eyes dark, his eyelids heavy. A flush blooming up his chest and onto his strained neck.

“No.” I yanked again on his hair. “Keep your eyes open and on me. I want you to watch.”