Page 49 of Payback On The Ice

"Eyes up," he says.

My eyes snap up to his face. There's color high on his cheekbones. He saw me looking. He liked it.

He gets on the bed. He kneels between my legs and puts his hands on my knees and pushes them apart, wide, and I let him. He runs his palms up the insides of my thighs, slow, and stops just short of where I want them.

"Tell me the truth," he says.

"Okay."

"When's the last time somebody touched you?"

I swallow.

"Before April," I say. "Before—everything. There was a guy at Harrow. Nothing serious."

"And after?"

"Nobody." I'm looking at the ceiling. "Nobody wanted to touch me after."

He lets that sit. His thumbs move on the insides of my thighs, little circles.

Then he leans down and puts his mouth on me.

He takes forever.

He doesn't suck me so much as take me apart. He licks up the underside of my cock from base to tip, slow, with the flat of his tongue, and then he does it again. He mouths at the head. He takes me into his mouth an inch at a time, hot and wet, and holds me there with his lips tight around me and his eyes up on my face, and doesn't move. He just holds me. Until I'm shaking. Until I'm squeezing the headboard so hard the wood creaks.

"Dane—"

He pulls off. "Don't move."

"I'm not⁠—"

"Your hips moved."

"Because you—fuck⁠—"

He puts his hand flat on my stomach, low, just above my cock, and presses down. Not hard. Just enough to hold me. Then he goes back down.

I lose track of time. I lose track of everything. He takes me deep, all the way, my cock bumping the back of his throat, and he swallows around me and I see stars. He pulls off and sucks my balls into his mouth, one and then the other, while his fist moves slow on my shaft. He gets me so close that my thighs lock up and my toes curl and there's a noise coming out of me I can't control⁠—

He stops.

Every time. Right at the edge. He stops and holds me there with his hand still on my stomach and his breath hot on my wet cock, and he waits, and watches me come down, shaking, gasping, leaking all over myself.

The third time he does it, I start to beg.

I don't plan to. It just comes out. "Please. Please, Dane, please, I can't⁠—"

"Where are you?"

"What?"

He crawls up my body. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of my head so none of his weight is on my side. His face is right over mine. His mouth is wet and red.

"Where are you," he says again, quiet. "Talk to me."

"I'm—" I can't think. "I'm good. I'm so good. I'm here. Please."