Page 57 of Paris and the Reaper

Paris rested his head on Mac’s shoulder, giving him more access to his throat, more skin to pepper with kisses. “And where would it have ended?”

“Right here,” Mac said, holding him tight. “Where you’re the center of my world.”

“And you mine.” Paris angled his head, and Mac didn’t hesitate to claim his lips, to sweep his tongue into his mouth and taste every bit of sweetness and light Paris had brought into his life, every ounce of love and desire Mac had avoided for so long but couldn’t get enough of now.

Especially with Paris twisting in his arms and grinding up against him, his cock hard against the length of Mac’s. “Is there any food that won’t keep?”

Mac nipped at his lips, along his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “I just need to put the cheese in the fridge,” he said, loving the tremors that quaked through Paris, the short breaths panted against the side of his face.

But not for long, Paris drawing out of his arms and holding up a hand when Mac started to reach for him, not willing to let him go. “Do that,” he said. “Get a fire going, and I’ll meet you back at the bed. I need to get my wits about me or this will be over way too fast.”

Mac chuckled as Paris practically ran to the bathroom. He enjoyed turning Paris on, liked having him on the pleasure ropes for a change. He wondered if he could do more of that this evening, if he could try what he’d thought about that day Paris had been waiting for him with the toy. Mac hadn’t packed the plug, but he bet Paris would still enjoy the stimulation. Mac sure would, the thought alone—of Paris writhing under his teasing tongue—getting him harder. When he stood from in front of the hearth, there was no hiding his erection. But then Paris wasn’t hiding his either, standing naked beside the bed.

“Fuck,” Mac cursed as he crossed the room. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” The blush that rosied his pale cheeks only added to the devastating picture. “If I had any artistic talent at all, I’d paint these eyes,” he said as he cupped Paris’s cheek and swiped a thumb under the molten brown. He trailed his hand down, fingers barely touching skin, lifting goose bumps. “I’d paint these collarbones too, and the dip of your throat.” He leaned forward, tonguing the divot, as he continued to travel south first with his hand, then his lips, kissing a path in its wake. “This valley that cuts between your pecs and your ribs and your abs.” He sank to his knees and circled Paris’s length with his fist, giving it a long, slow stroke. “This cock.”

Paris let his head fall back on a groan. “You do okay with words. And the touch. Fuck, I love to be touched like this. So soft.” Mac continued to stroke his cock, in no hurry, while he teased Paris everywhere around it with the soft kisses he seemed to love so much—his pelvis, his thighs, his sac—until Paris begged for more.

“You want me to kiss you here?” Mac teased, dropping one on the sticky head of his cock. He caught a bead of precome with his tongue and spread it around the head, pulling off after a flick to the underside.

Paris righted his gaze and his pupils were blown so wide that only a thin ring of brown remained, the dark black reflecting the violet of Mac’s own eyes. “I want you to suck me off,” Paris said as he plowed a hand into his hair, possessively clenching his fingers and urging Mac forward. “Make me come.”

He swallowed Paris as far as his throat would allow, until he gagged, then did it over and over again, sucking and licking, teasing the tip each time he came close to drawing off, before plunging back down, using his hand to lengthen the strokes, especially as Paris increased the pace of his thrusting hips,putting more speed and power behind the movement, fucking Mac’s mouth with abandon.

It was a sight to behold, the most beautiful man Mac had ever seen panting above him, at the mercy of his mouth, trusting Mac enough to let it all go with him. It was the biggest fucking turn-on, and Mac had to spread his own knees wider, had to make room for his own aching cock inside his trousers.

Paris’s needy “I’m gonna come” didn’t help his situation.

Mac grunted around his cock, and that was all it took, Paris coming in his mouth, filling it with come faster than he could swallow, some of it leaking out the corners of his mouth, because he would be damned if he didn’t milk every last ounce of pleasure from Paris. When he was finally, completely spent, Mac drew off his cock with a parting kiss and stood.

“You made a mess,” Paris said, sounding almost drunk as he wiped the come from Mac’s chin. “And I’m not sure how much longer I can stand on these orgasm-jellied legs.”

“Let’s go, then,” Mac said, his voice rough as he shuffled them the rest of the way to the bed, the two of them side by side on the edge.

Paris rested his chin on his shoulder and slid a hand over his thigh, sliding it higher until he was cupping him through his slacks. “We need to get this inside me.”

Mac rocked up into his hand, the friction tempting, but his earlier thought still lingered, a fantasy he wanted to live. He rotated his face toward Paris’s, whispering against his lips. “I want to taste you there first.”

“Fuck,” Paris cursed on a long, tortured groan. “You’re gonna make me come again.”

“Would that be a problem?”

Paris kissed the upturned corner of his mouth. “I love that smirk. I don’t know if I want to paint it or your smile.”

“Not the raven?” Mac asked as Paris began undressing him, his shirt the first piece of clothing to go.

“I thought about that too. I want you to see all the colors in your feathers. Like they are in your aura.”

“What’s it look like right now?” He lifted his hips so Paris could push his pants and boxers off, freeing his cock.

“Rivers of pink and red in a sea of flowing blue, violet, and green.” He trailed a hand back up his leg, inside his thigh, cradling his balls. “It’s beautiful, Mac. It’s the peace you’re supposed to have, that you deserve.” Then fisted his cock, mimicking the long, slow strokes Mac had given him.

“Need you, Paris.”

“You still want?—”

“Yes,” Mac said, wanting it more than ever, wanting all of Paris.

He waited for Paris to arrange himself on his stomach, his ass lifted by a pillow under his hips, then crawled between his spread legs, hands sliding up the backs of his thighs and palming his ass. Paris rolled his hips. “You gonna make me fuck this pillow?”

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