Page 52 of Provoking the Punter

Chester rocked back and grabbed a pillow. “Put this under your hips.” Garrett lifted his butt enough that Chester could shove it beneath. “Is your dick comfy?”

“Yeah, my balls aren’t.”

“So I should keep going?” He worked one spit slicked thumb around Garrett’s hole, watching the way it flexed as though trying to grab him.

Garrett rocked his hips as though hoping Chester’s thumb would accidentally slide in. “Please… I need a little more to come.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t give him anymore. He kept his promise of not fucking him, and continued to lick, and circle, and press as he was about to thrust a finger in.

Garrett groaned and begged and humped the pillow. His hips lifting and back arching in a perfect picture of need. A strand of pre-cum stretched from the tip of his dick to the pillow.

“I need… uh… I’ll do whatever…”

Chester moved his tongue in a slow circle around Garrett’s hole, listening as the pleading disintegrated into a moan.

“You beg so prettily.” Chester rubbed a thumb over Garrett’s taint, pressing on his prostate.

“Oh, fuck.” Garrett’s hips jerked as he came. “Fuck…” He collapsed onto his belly. “What the fuck was that?” His voice was muffled by the sheets as he sprawled on the bed, limp and sated.

“That is how you can enjoy butt stuff without putting things up your butt.” He ran his palm over his aching cock. His briefs were damp with pre-cum. It would only take a couple of strokes. He’d forgotten how much fun it was to play with someone and make them squirm.

Garrett groaned again. “I want you to fuck me.”

Chester gripped his cock a little tighter. “Gold pants first, honey.”

“Fuck.” He lifted his head. “You haven’t come.”

“No.” And if Garrett asked to be fucked again, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to resist. Why was he trying to resist? “Want to suck me?”

“That’s not even a question. Of course I want to suck you.” All of a sudden, Garrett was alive. He pulled the cum-wet pillow out from beneath his hips and rolled onto his back with Chester dodging his leg. “Get up here.”

They both moved until Chester knelt over Garrett’s head.

“Why do you still have clothes on?”

“So I wasn’t tempted.” Not that they had helped.

Garrett pulled the briefs down, freeing his cock. It bounced as if desperate to find its way into Garrett’s mouth, and then Garrett’s lips closed around him. His hands were on Chester’s hips, but his grip didn’t tighten, and he didn’t drag Chester closer.

His tongue worked along the underside.

Chester rolled his hips, thrusting a little deeper each time. Garrett swallowed everything he was given, then tilted his head, asking for a little more. He’d done his homework, and Chester thrust a little deeper. Garrett swallowed, his throat tight, and it was enough. He came, spilling down Garrett’s throat. And Garrett made greedy little noises like he couldn’t get enough.

Chester rolled onto his back next to him. His heart raced, and he was breathing hard. He was never going to get enough of Garrett. Turning his head to glance at his player, he found Garrett already looking at him with that dimpled smile on his face.

And Chester’s heart did that stupid little flippy thing, like it was tipsy from too many bubbles.

He was in trouble, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Chester was too old to be sneaking out of hotel rooms at midnight two nights in a row and then getting up at six in the morning for a swim. When his alarm had gone off, he’d thought about ignoring it. He hadn’t because that wasn’t the kind of person he was. He liked his Wednesday morning swim and catch up with Preston, and at that time of the morning, the pool wasn’t busy. Preston was already doing his laps when Chester slid into the water, taking more than a moment to get used to the cold.

Preston was one of the few people who knew too much about him. He could add Garrett to that list. He shouldn’t be adding people to that list, because the more people who knew, the more likely it would be the wrong person found out. “People like him” weren’t meant to crawl out of their hovel. They were meant to stay there and prove that poor people remain stuck there because they were bad people or bad with money… or whatever excuse those with generational wealth like to make.

He wasn’t rich, not like some of the people who attended his charity dinners. Nicely comfortable would be a more accurate term, and as long as things kept rolling along, he’d be fine. He’d started a nest egg, and eventually he’d sell one of the businesses…

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