Page 55 of Zeus

"Really?" he whispers.

I shake my head. "I d-didn't know."

It's the whole fucking truth. I've never put myself in a position to even find out if getting a little rough was something that I was into. Maybe with my history with him, and the pain I felt after he'd get mad at me and leave within minutes of us messing around, I figured it wasn't something I could get into. Clearly, my cock and I aren't on the same wavelength these days.

"I'll keep that in mind," he whispers.

"Do you want a—"

He shakes his head, silencing me before I can get the full offer out.

"No?"

"If you're down there," he says, lips an inch away from mine. "Then we can't do this."

His lips sweep over mine, tongue seeking and searching a lot quicker this time than it did just moments before. His hand works up and down my cock, his own hips rolling, urging me to work the length of his.

I do my best, but coordination when your brain doesn't even remember how to work is impossible, and if I were in my right mind, I might even be a little embarrassed with how badly I'm doing.

Frankie doesn't seem to mind.

The sounds coming from his chest and the ragged breaths he takes every so often when he pulls his mouth back an inch or so make me want to believe the man is enjoying himself.

"Fuck," he grunts, his forehead pressing to mine.

When he pushes forward, rolling his forehead so it forces us both to look down and watch what we're doing to the other, I realize I'm seconds away from coming.

"Frankie," I mutter, wanting to kick my own ass at the sound of his name rolling off my lips, but he doesn't falter.

His hand continues to work up and down the length of me.

"That's it," he praises, his mouth lifting to mine as if he knows that his lips on mine when I release has always been a dream of mine.

I groan into his mouth, cock kicking in his hand, and much to my surprise, he doesn't jerk back when splashes of my cum land on his cock, lubricating the stroke of my own hand down his length.

He grunts, his cock swelling a second before he orgasms.

His breath is ragged when he pulls back, eyes darting between mine, and I just know this is when the anger arrives. Post-nut regret is a real thing, and that's when finger-pointing and blame arise.

His chest heaves, rising and falling with every seedy inhale and exhale.

"I'm fucking exhausted," he says, leaning in one more time and pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

I stand there, swallowing and wondering just how hard I was breathing while we were messing around, because my mouth feels so dry.

"Me too," I say, letting my hand fall away from his softening cock.

His eyes drop for the briefest of seconds before he releases me as well, and the step he takes back, the distance he puts between us, feels like an uncrossable chasm, wider than any that has ever existed between us.

Is it regret in his eyes? Embarrassment? Shame?

I can't exactly decipher what the man is feeling, but I know from experience it isn't gratitude and elation.

If anything, the blankness in his eyes is worse than the usual anger and hatred he showed in the past. At least that was an emotion. Not feeling anything or not being affected enough to respond at all somehow cuts a little deeper than he's ever cut me before.

I shake my head, feeling like a fool despite being a very active participant in what just happened.

"Hey," he says, lifting his hand to my face, but stopping it a few inches shy. "Shit."