Page 92 of Stroked Long
“Roll over.”
“Why?” His lips now trail down to my chest.
“Because . . .” Oh God, why did I become shy all of a sudden? It’s just Bodi. Say what’s on your mind. “Because I want to suck your cock.”
Like a spring, his head pops up and his eyes study me, questions running through them, wondering if I’m serious.
Not needing to say it, I decide to show him. I push on his shoulders until he rolls over willingly. Loving everything about his chest, I remove his shirt because I want to torture him just as much as he tortured me.
Being the newly confident man that he is—at least around me—he laces his fingers behind his head, his biceps flexing, and stares up at me with heady eyes. His chest ripples, his pecs dancing with his movement, and even in a laid-out state I can see the clear definition of his six-pack. I know I make fun of him for his eating habits, but right now, I want to thank everyone who’s ever grown kale.
“You’re so hot,” I say, running my hands up his chest.
“You think so?” He gives me a knowing smirk and my heart takes flight in my chest.
Leaning forward, my hair cascading a curtain around us, I kiss his lips lightly—barely touching them—and then start kissing down the column of his neck to his collarbone where I spend a little time nibbling on his skin.
Slightly breathless, he says, “Careful, Rubes. My job entails me being shirtless one hundred percent of the time.”
“All the reason for me to mark you then, so people know you’re mine.”
I glance up to see his eyes burning through me with lust. Mmm, just what I wanted.
Nibbling some more, he throws out a warning, “Rubes . . .”
“Don’t worry.” Oh, he should worry. I work my lips down to his chest where I run my tongue over his flat nipple. A sharp hiss escapes him so I do it again, this time adding my teeth.
“Ruby,” he warns again, only spurring me on. I move over to the next nipple and do the same thing, loving the way he’s letting me control his body despite his numerous warnings.
I continue to work my way down, passing over his corded muscles, the deep contours of his abs, the yummy divots in his waistline, where I unbuckle his belt and undo his jeans. His erection is pressing up against the zipper and even though I want to torture him, I need to see just how long and hard he is.
He lifts off the ground so I can work his jeans down and since he doesn’t wear underwear, his cock springs free, and I’m greeted with the most delicious sight.
Shaking my head, I look up at him and see a very satisfied grin on his face. “Where do you stuff it all?”
This question stuns him. “What?” His brow furrows.
“Your penis, Bodi. Where do you put it all? It’s huge and somehow it’s not flopping around in your Speedo, aiding you in your strokes like a third arm in the pool. You know, like a rudder?”
A burst of laughter comes out of him, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. His chest vibrates with his chuckle and his abs flex with his movements. Sex oozes out of him with each laugh.He’s. So. Incredibly. Breathtaking. And he’s mine. Mine.
When he gains control, he shakes his head at me, as if he can’t believe my question. “Rubes, I’m not hard in the pool.”
“Wait.” I hold up my hand. And I can see the irony. I have this very hard, very lickable penis in front of me, and I am asking him questions about getting hard elsewhere. “You’re telling me you don’t get erect for the Olympics?”
“Nope.” He chuckles a little more.
“I wish that were the case. Could you imagine NBC’s ratings if they showed a bunch of men in tight swimsuits swimming around in the pool, their boners scraping the bottom? You know what?” I press my finger to my chin, really getting into my thoughts now, ignoring the giant cock bouncing in front of me. “That should be an Olympic sport: sausage stuffing.” I paint him a picture. “It starts with a line of flaccid penises, the gun goes off and it’s a race to see who can not only get erect first, but who can stuff their sausage in a pair of Spandex and then do twenty jumping jacks without their penis flying out. I would one hundred percent watch that. Would you?”
Bodi has a very perturbed look on his face and I’m pretty sure, just from the way his lip is tipped to the side, I know he wouldn’t want to watch that Olympic sport.
“Why would you want to see other men’s dicks?”
Of course that’s what he would ask.
“I don’t want to really see their dicks. I’m not about to sit in front of the TV and stare down their danglers, I just want to see the theatrics of it all.”
“Still seems like you want to see other dicks.”
