Prelude (On My Knees Duet 0.5)

What I should do is weigh anchor and get him to his cruise-liner tonight. But my self-control has snapped, and I can’t seem to find the will to marshal it.

We spend a long time in the shower—mostly me making him come. Every time he goes for my dick, I distract him in some new way. By the time I lead him, towel-wrapped and tired-eyed, from the shower to my bed, I’ve come only once in the steam—from stroking myself as I sucked him off. It’s a mark of pride for me that he was too lost in his pleasure to notice.

I pull the covers back and lift a brow, directing him to lie down, which he does. He sprawls out on his back, peering up at me with heavy eyelids and a crooked smile. I like it. I like that he’s worn out from my mouth and fingers. He props one arm behind his head, and I lean my thighs against the bed’s side, running my gaze up and down him.

I’m not looking at his face, but I can feel him watching me peruse his body. Good. For this one night, he’s mine to look at. When I allow my gaze to move over his features, I realize I don’t know him well enough to read the slight bend of his lips. But I think he looks…satisfied.

I run my eyes over his chest and shoulders. I like how he’s sculpted but not super thick. He’s lean, a little lanky, but with enough definition that I can run my fingertips over the grooves of his abs. I could lie behind him and wrap an arm around him, inhale the scent of my shampoo in his soft hair.

The mere thought of that makes my dick twitch. I distract myself by reaching out and drawing my fingertips along the tan line between his dark knees and the paleness of his thighs.

I smirk, and he shifts his hips, rubbing a palm over his stiffening dick. “Laughing at my tan line, cap’n?”

“And if I am?”

I stretch out on the bed on my side, facing him, and run my fingertip along the V of his abs. Then, because I’m weak and he’s so beautiful, I spread my hand over his six-pack. His muscles twitch. I feel him inhale, and I struggle not to stroke downward. He’s hard and firm here. Under my palm, his skin is soft and hot. I smile as I trace the trail of hair that leads to where I’d like to go.

“Treasure trail,” he murmurs.

Oh, I know I shouldn’t, but I do. I cup his ever-present hard-on, shifting my position so it’s easier for me to trace the rim of his thick tip. I don’t plan to make him come again, but there’s a part of me—a wicked part—that wants to see him suffer the way I do.

Smart guy—he can sense me toying with him. His hand closes around my wrist, and he tugs upward. “Lie beside me.” It’s a husky whisper.

I glance up at him. There’s something in his eyes…a kind of glow. Contentedness, maybe it is. Even though I know I should get up and get us moving, I find that I can’t not oblige him.

I shift so I’m lying right beside him, careful not to get too close—just close enough so I can see his lips quirk as I whisper, “This has been nice.”

He laughs, his face breaking into a radiant grin. “Is that what you would call it?” His voice is soft. Amused.

I give him a thin smile. “That’s what I said.”

“I want you to top me.” His words are so quiet that I wonder for a minute whether I imagined them.

He turns onto his side to face me. I shut my eyes. Beneath the towel I’ve got wrapped around my hips, I’m hard as steel. My balls ache with the weight of my craving. I shake my head and look down at the duvet.

“What you’ve been doing to me—” His voice cracks on the words, and I can see his Adam’s apple as he swallows. His eyes find mine. “I want to do it to you, too. If you don’t want to fuck me, let me do what you did to me. It feels so good…what your fingers did.”

“I know.”

I can feel the air leave my lungs as I look into his eyes. They burn, desire bleeding from them. When he reaches for my shoulder, I roll away. Off the bed…into the hall. I feel him on my heels. In my mind, I give in when he catches my arm. But…he doesn’t.

I walk into the kitchen alone, swill some scotch, and get us water, fruit, croissants, and cheese. When I return to the bedroom, I find him lying on his side, his scruffy cheek propped in his palm and his eyes trained on the door. When he doesn’t sit up for the food, I set the tray down on the duvet, climb carefully back onto the bed, and hold the water’s straw to his lips. Our eyes hold like magnets as he swallows.