Page 69 of Loverboy

It wasn’t just fantasy anymore.

I wasn’t jerking off in his bed.

“Fuck,” I rasped. “Just like that.”

My words of encouragement made him still. His horn-rimmed glasses bit into my shoulder while he breathed me in, and suddenly I was terrified that I’d said the wrong thing. I arched my spine even further, until every inch of our chests pressed together, the harsh pounding of my heart threatening to bruise my ribs. Whatever demons he was battling, mine were hungrier.

He cursed under his breath. His hands dipped under my shirt and ran over my stomach with a firm pressure, grabbing, squeezing, and digging his nails into every part of me he could reach. The blood from his wound was warm, smearing across my skin, marking me in a way that drove me to the brink of insanity.

“Tell me what to do,” Jasper ordered. “Tell me how to keep you here with me.”

I closed my eyes, afraid of being denied. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he hissed. “Tell me exactly.”

“More.”

“Where, loverboy? Use your words.”

Humiliation burned a hole in my stomach. Admitting the way I needed him felt dirty. Wrong. As I wrestled with the morality of it, I lost his touch, his hands pulling out from beneath my shirt and leaving me aching with loss.

I grabbed his wrist gingerly with my uninjured hand and guided him to where the hard line of my cock strained against denim, a pathetic, needy whimper tumbling out of my mouth. His knuckles dragged lazily over the source of my torment, my hips jerking forward to meet the sensation.

“Fuck, Milo…” My name sounded filthy rolling off his tongue.

I turned my head in a blind search until I found the corner of his mouth, and his body went rigid with restraint that I loathed.

“Kiss me,” I pleaded, nudging his head with mine.

Nothing.

“I said—”

The air left my lungs in a hurry as my back connected with the couch, his body between my legs, effectively becoming my prison. His lips were softer than I’d imagined. I thought they might be rough, like the harsh words and guarded touch I knew, but the kiss was gentle, as if he thought I were something delicate.

I didn’t want to be delicate.

I sobbed against his mouth, an influx of mixed emotions lancing through me. He sucked my bottom lip between his teeth and bit there too, the taste of metal seeping into my tongue. Nothing was enough.

The couch creaked beneath us, the heated kiss growing sloppy. He felt his way down to the button of my jeans, and with a mind of their own, my hips canted upwards to help. I couldn’t lose the taste of him, chasing his mouth each time he tried to pull away enough to get me undressed.

I felt the rumble of frustration in his chest as he pulled my jeans and boxers down with deft hands, the cool air hitting newly exposed skin and making me shiver. I looked up at the ceiling, not willing to look at the scars that plastered my thighs, because it was already mortifying enough to know that he could see them, too. He already knew they were there, but what if touching them was different? What if he hated the way my raised, uneven skin felt on the pads of his fingers?

My panic was unfounded. He slumped, his head dipping between my legs, alternating between open-mouthed kisses and reverent nips at my thighs. He touched me like they weren’t even there—like I was whole.

“Hurry up,” I rasped, writhing with anticipation.

“God, you’re so needy.” He gave me an annoyed look from behind his glasses before wrapping his blood-slick hand around my cock, giving it a reprimanding squeeze that made my vision blur.

“Your hand… it’s dirty,” I moaned.

“Just like you.” He gave my touch-starved length a rough stroke.

“Fuck you.”

My head fell back against the couch, and I struggled to suppress another moan.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His eyes darkened.