Page 78 of Employing Patience

My third finger makes him tense up again, but I wait him out, wanting to reach around and touch his cock but wanting to get him hard over the thought of ass play and nothing else. To get him there faster, I lean down and flick my tongue over his stretched entrance.

“Argh, you know my weakness.” His words are all garbled, but I catch them. Let them burn through me as I spit on my fingers while I fuck him with them.

I wait until he’s taking them easier, until he’s pushing back and his cock is at full mast, balls jumping in his sac every time I hit that right spot.

Then I pull them out without warning.

Joey lets out a grunt of protest.

“Relax …” I tell him. “You’re ready for the main event.”

23

JOEY

The sudden emptiness makes me want to sob, especially when Art stands from behind me and runs his fingers through my hair. I turn to look up at him. His fly is parted, cotton-brief-covered cock poking through the gap, and I scowl that he isn’t even naked yet.

“This main event has a hell of an intermission.”

I get the deep, sexy chuckle I’m hoping for. “I want you on the other side of the room, bent over that cabinet in front of the window. I’m going to get lube and a condom, and I don’t want anything to hold me up from being inside you.”

The confident way he always talks about sex does it for me. I’m no prude myself, and most of the chicks I’ve been with have been sex positive, but not like Art. He doesn’t play coy. He says exactly what he wants and the way he wants it. It means I don’t have to guess or fumble around; I just do what he tells me and trust him to make it feel good.

And from the one, almost two, times we’ve been together? He’s more than earned that trust.

Art knows sex.

And some stupid part of me has decided it’s not happy with that.

It wants more.

I remind myself that with a man like Art, we’re taking baby steps here.

He leaves to get the supplies, and I do exactly as I’ve been told, like a good little solider. I bend over the cabinet, trying not to focus on how it’s the perfect height to be fucked over, and definitely trying not to focus on the fact Art clearly knows it.

I’m well aware of his history, and it has no place in our present.

His footsteps give him away, and I don’t turn to look when he gets back. I wait, gazing out at the mountains and up to where the Kilborough Penitentiary stands. It’s darkened now, closed to tourists, and while I can see a world beyond the window, there’s no one around to witness the things Art is about to do to me.

His presence warms the backs of my thighs before his hands run down my back. Those skin-melting calluses bring my nerve endings alive, and I lean into his touch, craving more. Reminding myself to be grateful this is happening again while knowing it won’t be enough.

“You okay?” he asks, and the simple question solidifies the comforting vibes I was getting from him earlier. He might have a reputation for loving sex, but it’s a two-way street with him.

No wonder so many men keep on coming back for more.

My dumb ass included.

But it’s hard to be bitter about that when he drags the head of his cock along my crease.

“Please do it,” I beg.

“I love a man who remembers his manners.”

He presses his cock to my hole and pushes forward. There’s pressure—a lot of pressure—and a split second of panic and regret before Art’s tip slips inside me. I expect him to keep pushing, but he stills, hands holding a death grip on my ass cheeks, so I can’t even push back.

I’m not sold that I want to though. It’s overwhelming and straight-up weird, this feeling of being split open. I want to be a pro at this, to ride Art like he’s never been ridden and leave him wanting more, but for right now … I can’t even move.

It’s not that it hurts, really, though there’s a slight pressure; it’s more that my brain has jumped on the nope train and isn’t willing to budge.

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