Page 33 of Ring My Bell

Not that I wanted to, really.

His kisses were a line of heat down my jaw, under my chin. Arching into him, I braced myself on the counter, letting him touch me however he wanted. His fingers plucked at my nipples until I hissed in pleasure-pain. His smile against my neck sent a spark of need straight to my cock. Iggy pulled back enough to look at me from under those long lashes. “May I?” He splayed his hand over my cock and rubbed slowly. “I want to taste you, Mathis. Is that okay?”

“Jesus, yes,” I breathed. “Please. I… I really want you to.”

He smiled and dropped so damn gracefully to his knees, working my jeans open with nimble, sweet fingers. When he finally pulled me out of my boxers, I nearly sobbed with relief. “Okay?” he asked. “If it’s too much, or not enough…”

“Please,” I repeated. “Please, please…”

“Well, since you’re so polite.”

The first touch of his tongue made me gasp. The next one, a long and languid slide from base to top, left me breathless. Iggy teased the vein along the underside, pausing to flick the tip of his tongue across my slit, collecting the bead of precum gathered there. He paused. I thought he was stopping, which led to the realization I was not above begging.

Before I could, though, the warm velvet heat of his mouth engulfed me, sliding from tip to root in a long, slow, tortuous slide. Gagging, he pulled back, glancing up at me. I nodded. “It’s okay. You don’t have to take it all. I want you to enjoy it too. Please?”

He nodded, reaching for my hand and bringing it to the back of his head.

Fuck.

Iggy resumed the long, languid suck and slide of his ministrations. His soft sighs and tiny grunts of pleasure sent sharp shivers through my body, collecting in my pelvis. I wanted to thrust, I wanted to cum, I wanted it to last forever, but it felt too good.

As Iggy sped up, I was unable to stay still. It started with tiny thrusts, my fingers combing through his curls as I tried not to absolutely fuck his face. Iggy shot me another look and reached for my hand, pressing it firmly against the back of his head and glancing up. He was asking—no, I realized, he was telling me it was okay. He wanted it rougher this time. Wanted me to chase the pleasure he was offering, to take it.

When I curled my fingers tight in his hair, he moaned, shifting his position to open his throat for me.

“Iggy…”

His answering grunt was all I needed, permission to go ahead.

He grabbed hold of my thighs as I rocked into his waiting mouth and throat, his tongue working against me and making me moan in turn. The wet, sucking sounds of Iggy working me as I fucked his mouth were obscene and erotic and something I never knew I’d be into.

So long as it’s Iggy. Not just anyone doing this. It has to be Iggy.

I was so focused on the sounds he was making, on the growing, telltale pulse of heat in my belly, I missed him cupping my balls and stroking, slipping one finger behind them to press against my perineum. He was jerking off while sucking me, his eyes squeezed tight and face flushed.

“Iggy!”

As I came, he grunted, sucking harder to swallow me down. His release was hot and sudden against my leg. His cry muffled by my cock still in his mouth, he laved and licked and worked my softening flesh, making me wince with oversensitivity. “Come here,” I rasped, tugging him to his feet.

He smiled at me, lips puffy and slick with spit and cum, eyes watering from the throat-fucking. I couldn’t make the right words happen, tangled in my chest, twined around one another in a ball that felt too heavy and light all at once.

So I kissed him instead, tasting myself on his tongue. Feeling him melt against me, we stood, debauched and replete, in the cabin’s kitchen. A tiny island of time just for us, before we threw ourselves to the wolves.

* * *

Time passed too fast and not fast enough. Between stealing kisses and groping one another like we’d just figured out what our dicks could do and wanted to try everything, we got cleaned up. We were almost late for our call time at the little auditorium where the Thursday night showcase was being held.

As we checked in, Iggy clung to my arm, though he flashed that megawatt smile at the volunteer. When Gerald’s ex hustled over to us to ostensibly introduce himself but also lowkey find out how Gerald was doing, Iggy flirted and charmed him until he wasn’t looking sad about Gerald’s absence. “Well,” he said, finally smiling a little, “you’re going on last, but Gerald also arranged for your preferred make of piano to be available, Mister Reisner. Just say the word and we’ll have the stage hands move it out before your set. It’s backstage right now since the acts before you either don’t use a piano or will be using the auditorium’s own option.”

“Seriously,” I muttered as a volunteer led us to the green room area, “what the hell is up with Gerald and his connections?”

“His family is ridiculously rich.” Iggy shrugged. “His dad finances movies, and his mom is some sort of investment strategist, whatever that means. I figure it’s a case of a charmed life.”

I snorted. “It’s all right to be some people.”

Iggy rolled his eyes. Any comment he might have made was lost to the crush of bodies and voices in the green room. We were never alone, even for a moment. Once the showcase started, it was a constant stream of noise and people in and out. I recognized a few faces, either from the old club circuit or from the occasional tabloid cover. Mostly, though, we were surrounded by strangers, many of whom recognized Iggy. Several of those folks had apparently heard Raymond’s version of the story.

“I can’t believe they let a fucking criminal play here,” one man sniffed.

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