Page 12 of Our Elliana

“What do you think, sweet thing? Ready for me to come inside you?”

Fucking Christ, I’m sure as hell ready.

But all I receive in reply is a negative shake of her head as she rolls up in her bed linens, obscuring herself from me.

“Not this time. Bring me a warm washcloth from in there.” She points towards her ensuite bathroom.

Stunned, I obey almost mechanically, my dick sticking out like a mainsail. It’s difficult to process illogical commands when all your blood has traveled due south. When I return with the requested cloth, she takes it, then waves at me until I back away.

“You can get yourself off now. But only if you show me.”

At this particular juncture, I’d show just about anyone above the age of consent who requested such a thing of me. So, I push to my feet to give her a front-row view and fist my cock.

“Such definition and veins...” she mutters, reaching out to touch them, touch me.

I draw back my own hand, and the instant she makes contact with my too-tight skin, I erupt.

“Uunngh, fucking Christ,” I shout as my seed ejects all over the back of her hand, wrist, and arm, some of it making it all the way to her shoulder. It spurts from my tip over and over, and with each one, I release a labored groan, my stomach flexing. I’d held back for so long that the relief is damn near an ache.

Incredible how refraining like that can ramp up a guy’s horsepower.

Once she uses her washcloth to scrub off my mess, she offers it back to me. I take it and clean up the bit still lingering on me.

“Throw that in my hamper, will you? It’s right inside my closet there.” She gestures toward an expansive walk-in closet more reminiscent of a dressing room complete with lots of drawers and hanging rods as well as a lit vanity and bench.

I’m reminded heavily of the similar furniture my mother and three older sisters use, not that I’ve been around any of them in over a decade. Blinking the memory away, I dump the cloth in the hamper as instructed.

“Thank you,” she tells me. “All right. Send the blond kid in.”

SEVEN: Swallow Me Whole

NOAH

I’m midway through my seventy-seventh pushup when the guy with long hair and tattoos—Jackson, I think—comes careening down from the top of the stairs. Thank heavens he has his jeans on, even if the buttons on those button flies are flapping undone.

“Hey, kid. You’re up,” he says, slapping me on the back in the same way someone might encourage a football player to go score a goal. Maybe, in a manner of speaking, he is.

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