Chapter Seven
We burst into the door of my converted-garage-slash-apartment like we were trying to break it down, Angel’s hands twisted in my T-shirt and our mouths sealed together so tightly that our sunglasses were going askew. Angel kicked the door shut behind him as I ripped off both of our sunglasses and tossed them in a random direction, not caring if they broke or got stepped on or landed on something embarrassing, like my giant plastic bag full of other plastic bags that I kept meaning to recycle. Angel’s tongue was slick and skilled, fluttering over the tip of my tongue until I groaned, and then plunging deep, stroking my mouth like he was fucking it.
Only tripping once over a stack of bridal magazines, we stumbled back to my couch, which was covered in thrifted afghan blankets and throw pillows that Sunny had embroidered with various genitals, and Angel pushed me down, crawling over me with a knee planted on either side of my hips, his mouth giving me no reprieve, no quarter. I was dizzy, from the kissing, from the erection that was currently straining the very well-constructed zipper of my vintage black jeans. From Angel’s scent and his dilated pupils when he pulled back to look at me.
“I want to spend the rest of my life with my tongue in your mouth,” Angel rasped, trailing his fingers over my swollen lips. “Too bad I can think of other things I’d like to do with it.”
My hands were sliding up his hard thighs to his narrow hips. I encountered the turgid ridge of his hard-on before I got to the button of his slouchy khakis, and pressed my palm against it until he hissed. The cuts on my hands were mostly healed, but there was the tiniest bit of sting as I rubbed his dick over his pants, and I almost welcomed it, savored it even. It was like confirmation that I was here, that this was really happening, that it was really him under my hand, him above my hips, and that it wasn’t one of the countless, countless dreams I’d had since I got on that plane home from Vermont.
My hands shook a little as I unbuttoned Angel’s khakis, the trembles in my chest and stomach too as I unzipped the pants and pulled Angel’s briefs down to expose his shaft. It was thick and long and cut, so I could see the perfect flare and swell of his crown. It was art all on its own, with two veins twining up the sides, and a mathematically straight line of dark hair marching down from his belly button straight to his base. I reached into his briefs and cupped his balls, grinning wickedly when he shuddered.
“Like that?” I asked, and he mock-scowled down at me.
“I hate it. Never do it again. And you better not stroke me behind there, that would make me really miserable.”
“You were the one who called me a brat,” I told him, sliding my fingers behind the tightening skin of his sack and running them along the warm skin of his perineum. He grunted a delicious noise as his hips rolled forward. And then he grunted again as I parted my lips and sucked his first two fingers into my mouth, grazing his fingertips with my tongue and then pulling them as far as they would go, nearly to the back of my throat. I might have been only porn-adjacent, but I did have a nonexistent gag reflex, something I attributed to a long habit of aggressively brushing the back of my tongue twice a day. (I like having fresh breath, okay? Sue me.)
Angel’s pupils were so dilated now that his irises were a thin ring of bright brown around the black, and his throat worked as I sucked on his fingers. I found his stiff cock with my hands and gripped the hot, thick length, working both hands up and down until he was rocking his hips forward, fucking my fists.
He pulled his fingers free and reached behind himself. With some tugging and scooching, we had my jeans undone and pulled to my thighs. He rewetted his fingers in my open mouth and then reached back to jerk me slowly.
The first jolt of pleasure hit me like a train. I gasped, arching underneath him, and then unable to move much because he was still straddling me, I whined for more, which he gave.
I pulled on his cock until I’d guided him forward to straddle my chest. He still had a hold of me behind him, and the angle was a little awkward, but I subscribed to the philosophy that the hand of a cute guy on your cock at an awkward angle is better than no hand at all.
“Are you sure, babe?” he murmured, looking down at where the wet head of his dick was just a few inches from my mouth. The little pet name made my heart flutter, which was saying something, because the slow, torturous handjob he was giving me was sending me into arrhythmias, fibrillations.
“Never been surer,” I replied and then took his slick crown between my lips.
He tasted wonderful, salt and skin and him, and I loved feeling him jump and jerk on my tongue, like just being in my mouth was enough to make him respond.
“Fuuuuck,” Angel whispered, watching his erection disappear into my mouth. “You feel so good. Fuck.”
I wrapped my fist around his base and worked the bottom of his shaft while I sealed my lips around him, making as much suction as I possibly could while also caressing his sensitive frenulum with my tongue.
“I’m not going to last,” he warned me, his chest heaving. His eyes were molten on mine, his hand on my cock tight enough to make an angel sing. I didn’t want him to last. I wanted him to spill all over my tongue, spill right down my throat. I wanted to taste him, to feel him pulsing, and know he was as far gone as I’d been all this time.
Also I was about to jizz all over his fist.
He went first, his thighs tensing around my shoulders, his breath coming out in a punched exhale as he surrendered to the primal need to fuck and shoved his way deeper into my mouth as he swelled and swelled. The dam broke, and he poured down my throat, spurt after thick spurt, his shaft flexing with each and every hard, long jet.
He had one hand on my cock, moving in irregular strokes, and his other hand on my jaw, and it was strange to feel treasured just then, but I did, I really did. He was still getting me off, even in the throes of his own pleasure, and his expression was something between awed and greedy. He was looking at me like he was trying to memorize this moment, memorize everything about it.
The orgasm rippled through me with abrupt speed, and I came with his cock in my mouth, twisting underneath him. I could hear my Converse on the sofa, rubber against the old velour cushions, and I could hear the now-slick sound of his hand working me over and over, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from me that he could, even as he was still using my tongue to ride out the last throes of his release.
He slid free after a minute, although he kept his fist around my now-sensitive cock. He looked back over his shoulder at my groin.
“You made a mess,” he teased.
I smiled up at him, my half-dressed and all messy body more loose and relaxed than I could remember it being since our cabin in Christmas Notch. “I think I have just the thing.”
Chapter Eight
An hour later, and we were in a bubble bath. A legit bubble bath in the giant clawfoot tub that I’d rescued from my landlord’s curb when she’d renovated her master bathroom to have a walk-in shower with LED lights and a built-in fireplace.
And despite an Ibiza-rave level of bubbles, we weren’t doing a very good job of getting clean.
It had started innocently enough, with me sitting between Angel’s legs while he stroked my arms and shoulders, and then somehow I ended up in his lap, and then somehow I was straddling him, my thumbs bracing his jaw as I kissed him as deeply as I could. Our erections grazed under the bubbles, and with a long groan, Angel grabbed my hips and yanked me closer, until we could grind together properly.