“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his fingers trailing over my abs in ever-decreasing circles. “Look at you. Look at how much you want me.”
I glance down at myself, at my nakedness, and his open jeans. My chest heaves, my stomach trembles, and when my eyes land on my cock, I can see what he sees. My need is evident by the way it throbs, and the long string of silky pre-come that connects the flushed and angry looking head to my belly.
Ellis’s fingers edge closer and closer to where I need them to be, his pinky swiping through the evidence of my arousal and smearing it across my skin.
“Tell me, Macs.” His voice is deep seduction laced with a hefty dollop of aching need. “How badly do you want me to touch you right now?”
I close my eyes, my cock twitching violently as his fingers do another pass even closer, but not close enough.
“I’ve waited years for you to touch me. Years to have your hands on me, your mouth, your body.” When I open my eyes, they instantly find his heady stare. “It’s only been you for me, Ellis. Only you.”
His movements still, his eyes widening in shock.
“Nobody else?” His words tremble, unsure, and I shake my head no, unembarrassed by my confession. “There’s been no one before me?” His tone is now more powerful, urging me to clarify.
“No one.” My admission is a vow. “Why would there be when I’ve never stopped searching for you? Why would I settle for another when they could never be you? I wasn’t denying myself, Ell. I never felt the need for meaningless relief because I always, always knew they could never compare to you.”
He stares at me a beat, absorbing this truth, and I see the moment he loses all control a mere second before he pounces.
Bruising lips, searching tongue, possessive hands. I surrender to them all.
So thorough is he in marking and tasting every inch of me, I’m soon arching up and cursing to the ceiling as the exquisite tingle of his warm breath hits my throbbing tip seconds before he takes the broad head between his hungry lips.
Wet heat envelopes my cock, his clever mouth sucking and pulling and wringing me dry.
I hit the back of his throat and see stars, the tightness, the delicious friction pushing me closer and closer to falling over the edge.
Was it always like this?
Yes. Yes. Yes. Always.
The skim of his fingertips across my taint rewards him with another burst of my arousal, and I’m seconds away from shamelessly blowing my control.
“No, not like this, need you, Ell. Need you more.” I beg and plead, simultaneously trying to both escape his devilish mouth and plunge in deeper.
He ignores me, those searching fingers tickling my crease, circling my hole, and sending me out of my bloody mind.
Pressure builds, the tip of his finger breaching me and sending sparks of desperate pleasure directly to my tight balls.
He doesn’t ease up; he sucks me and fucks me, one finger then two.
The immeasurable pleasure of the dual sensations has me crying out in warning.
“Ellis.” His name is a moaned prayer, and an exaltation of bliss.
The next time the sensitive head of my cock hits the back of his throat, his talented fingers find that spot deep inside me—that spot that can send a man insane.
Game over.
I cry out in agonised ecstasy, thrusting and shaking and pumping my seed deep in his throat. Marking him with my essence, claiming him as mine.
When he’s satisfied he’s drunk every last drop, he scrambles up to his knees, frees his rock hard cock, and less than a dozen strokes and a pained groan later, he’s painting my thighs, my sated dick, and my abdomen with his release. Rubbing it into my skin with his fingers, searing me with his desire.
Panting harshly, he collapses on top of me in a ragged heap. Our bodies are sweat-slicked and sticky, his still covered legs entwined with mine, and my mind spinning on the edge of delirium.
Head tucked into the crook of my neck, his weight a warm blanket, his fingers painting soothing patterns across my ribs, he heaves a deep breath, his voice vibrating through my chest, directly into my heart.
“I think I dreamed of you, too.”
“You did? You remember?”
“No.” I feel the shake of his head against my skin. “I don’t remember you, not like this, not like a person. My dreams were always about searching for a feeling, searching for that one thing to fill the void.”
“What makes you think those dreams were about me?” My hands trail from his broad shoulders down to the small of his back.
“Because anytime I came close to finding that elusive thing that had no form or substance—it just was—it filled me and gave me peace.” He lifts his head to look down at me, soft wonder, awe, and amazement filling his handsome features, hitching his lips into a warm smile. “And I woke up feeling exactly like this.”
Chapter 12
Ellis
I’ve had two days to get my head around Macsen’s words.
Two days of fucking things up in the kitchen, burning food, messing up orders, and generally being a liability.
Even Iris is snapping at me, and Iris never snaps at anyone.
I can’t stop my brain from racing at a million miles an hour.
Can’t stop obsessively replaying Macsen’s every word, his every touch, the way he tastes, and how he feels against me skin to skin.
I’m spinning out of control, and I’m never like this. This isn’t me. I don’t get hung up on men, and I can’t remember the last time I even thought about anyone I’d been intimate with after the deed was done.
Never. That’s when.
Until now.
I’ve done numerous internet searches to disprove Macsen’s claims, attempting to get some logical answers to the maelstrom of emotions churning and swirling in my head. Trying to find ammunition to throw at him and call him a liar.
Legends.
Alternate lives.
Reincarnation.
Rebirth.
Past lives.
Afterlife.
The trouble is, the more I read, the more things click into place, and the less outlandish it all seems.
Yes, out of context my feelings are crazy, but I have to remind myself it’s only since Macsen appeared in my life that everything turned upside down. He can’t make these things happen. He’s not a magician or a god or playing mind tricks.
If I truly think about it, all this began the moment Macsen stepped foot in Lily Bay. That’s not a coincidence.
It felt as if I knew him the first moment I saw him. Hell, he was all around me that day, even before I laid eyes on him.
His explanation fits all of that.
It also clarifies why I’ve always felt the way I do—like I was missing a fundamental part of myself. I crave him. I ache for him on more than a physical level.
It’s a novel feeling for me, as I’ve never had a hook-up be anything more than sex. I’m a one and done kind of man, and I’ve always been upfront about it.
With Macsen, I feel the opposite, and it’s freaking me the hell out.
I want to talk to him for hours.
I want to find out all his quirks and nuances. All his wants and desires. All his thoughts and opinions.
I want to know how to make him laugh. If he’s ticklish. Does he like milk in his coffee? What side of the bed does he sleep on? Who does he support in rugby—or if he likes sports at all? What’s his favourite food? What book did he last read? Where has he travelled, and is there any place he’d still like to go? Does he snore? Is he a morning person or a night owl? Has he ever surfed? Who loves him and supports him? Is anyone missing him back home right now?