Wicked Lies Boys Tell

“Penn,” he rumbles. “So help me. Do not fucking kiss me.”

I nod, but I have to bite on my bottom lip to make good on that promise. Everything in me craves to kiss his mouth I’ve fixated on way too many times in my life to be healthy.

“I need you here tonight,” I admit in a husky, serious tone. “I can’t handle my dad alone. Please don’t make me do this alone.”

He presses a palm to my chest over my shirt. “You’ll have Leah.”

“I want you.”

His dark brows furl together. “Your heart is racing.”

“I hate my dad,” I remind him, my voice small.

Too much rides on tonight being successful. Dad holds out a key to my future. I just have to play his game and be the boy he never had.

“You can’t go to the dinner with a hard-on,” he mutters. “You might end up fucking Leah out of desperation. Then, you’d really be stuck with her if you knocked her ass up.”

“It’ll go away,” I grumble. “I’m not sleeping with Leah.”

“I could help make it go away,” he offers, his voice trembling slightly. “You could feel better and get your sexual practice in all at once.”

I grip his wrist when he starts sliding it down my stomach. “What are you doing, Copeland?”

“I just told you.”

His eyes won’t meet mine. I need him to look at me. When he realizes I’m not going to release his hand, he slides those icy blues to me, a challenge glimmering in them.

“Why?” I demand.

“Because I know what you need and I’m willing to give it to you. It’s just a hand job, Penn. Relax. You can come, get your little kink out over me doing it, and then fucking relax. You’re making this way too damn complicated.”

When I don’t have words to respond, his hand yanks from mine and he tugs at my belt. I watch in awe that Cope has offered to jerk me off. Like maybe I’m in a dream. A good dream, but a dream nonetheless.

He makes quick work of unfastening my jeans. Once they’re loose, he slides his large hand down past the elastic of my boxers. A hand that feels much like mine in size, but better, tentatively wraps around my aching length.

I hiss out in pleasure, my eyes rolling back. “Oh, fuck!”

Emboldened by my reaction, he strokes me in such a Cope way. Lazy. Smug. So damn sure of himself. I nearly come right then, but I want to make this last forever.

He doesn’t take me out of the moment to remind me he’s just a friend giving me a “hand.” No, he breathes heavily as he jerks me off and remains otherwise silent.

“This is the best torture,” I moan as I roll toward him.

I seek his mouth, but he turns away. It only makes me more desperate to taste him. Using my strength against him again, I grab his free hand, pinning it to the pillow beside him. Our eyes burn into each other as I thrust my hips against his hand. He grips me tight, not at all intimidated by my bold move.

“You can’t kiss me,” he murmurs, baring his teeth. “You can’t kiss me.”

Fuck, he’s hard in his jeans, too. My thigh rubs against his cock, making him groan.

“No, but I can suck,” I taunt, my lips finding his throat again.

I bite his neck and he squeezes my dick. I thrust my hips against his hand and he thrusts his against my thigh. Our breathing becomes labored and heavy and loud. Groans and moans, of mutual pleasure, fill the air. I suck new places on his neck, loving the way he jolts each time. Leaving my mark on him feels like victory.

Everything in me begs for him to fuck me.

It’s on the tip of my tongue.

I come hard with images of him pushing into me from behind. My cum soaks his hand as I moan against his wet throat. His pulse is jumping in his neck, which gives me the courage to repay him the favor. Running my palm down my stomach, I collect my cum in my palm.

“Take your dick out, Cope,” I growl against his skin. “Let me give you this favor.”

He doesn’t respond, but releases my cock to undo his jeans. When his dick is free in his still-wet hand, I push it away and take over stroking him. His teeth grind together as he tries to hold in sounds of pleasure.

But I fuck him so good with my hand, he’s eventually at my mercy.

And it’s my damn name that finally escapes his lips.

Copeland

I’m just toweling my hair dry when my dad walks into my room like he owns the damn place. His face reddens and his eyes protrude when he rakes his stare up my bare, tattooed chest and then lands on the state of my neck.