Page 83 of Rookie Recovery

Skin and sex. That was what he smelled like.

I breathed him in again, deep and long, and my cock reached near painful levels of rigidity.

I dragged my mouth lower, tracing ink and veins downwards, drinking in more of his scent, sucking it all in, cataloguing everything in case this would be the first and last time we ever did this. In case he came to his senses and realised he probably shouldn’t be fucking around with his patient.

Jamie whimpered, his hands in his hair, his hips gently thrusting against nothing, as though he couldn’t control them.

“Get this shirt off,” I said, pushing the fabric up against his stomach.

“We can’t do this here.” But I didn’t know who Jamie was trying to convince, since he had already pulled the Henley over his head and tossed it towards his backpack.

I took a few seconds to appreciate the view. Fucking magnificent. A masterpiece. My eyes could die happy now. I took my shirt off and threw it on top of his.

“Fuck, I love it when you undress for me.”

Internally, I did a happy jig. I knew it.

I kissed the skin peeking out the top of Jamie’s sweatpants. Teased my fingers underneath.

“Bowie, this … is a … public park.”

“We’re off the main pathway.” I pulled open the tie of his waistband.

“There are … dog walkers?”

“Then you’ll need to be quiet, won’t you?”

By way of answer, Jamie groaned, lolled his head back against the bark and canted his hips towards my face.

I inched his sweatpants down and watched the soft charcoal fabric as it slid over his beautiful olive skin. Down, gently over his hips, his happy valley, the deep V of muscle.

There were tattoos there as well, curling around his buttocks, disappearing down his thighs. I kissed each new inch of Jamie’s flesh as it was exposed.

I didn’t make it halfway down. Something snagged on his sweatpants, stopping me from pulling them any farther. Something very large.

Fucking massive, actually.

I needed a breather. Needed to steady myself. Make sure I was still touching the solid ground beneath me. Not floating off into happy space. I buried my face into his crotch, closed my eyes and breathed him in one last time, before hooking my thumbs under his waistband and lifting his sweatpants down.

I took a hot second to commit the image of Jamie in his underpants to my memory. Glorious. Majestic. I would need a lifetime to explore his ink, those muscles, the small scars here and there. Make sure that no part of his body went unremembered by someone. I looked up and snapped another mental picture.

“Fuck, Bowie.” Hands reached out to plunge themselves into my hair. “Look how fucking perfect you are.”

“I’m going to worship you now,” I said, looping my fingers around the waistband of his underpants and lifting them down to meet his sweatpants at the tops of his thighs.

Jamie’s cock sprang free, bobbing. Long and thick and tan. His crown glistened with pre-cum. I had to jam the heel of my palm against the head of my own cock. He was magnificent. The type of magnificent I couldn’t have dreamt up in my wildest, wettest, most preposterously indecent office-based fantasies.

I pinched the bead of moisture off his cock and licked my thumb clean.

“Jesus, Bowie. You’re … I can’t …”

I smiled, wrapped a fist around his cock, and pressed a feather-light kiss to his crown. He whined. I placed another to the base and dragged my lips and tongue up his length.

Jamie whimpered. His hands scraped down his face, pulled at his own hair, his decorated biceps on full display. He put on such a beautiful show for me.

This. This had been my intention all along.

To watch this man—control personified, master of his emotions, pedantically professional—come undone. Melting for me. Succumbing to me.

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