Page 74 of Dear Mr. Brody

“I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” he gasped, the word sharp and gritty as I knelt down onto my haunches in front of him. Water trickling over my skin. I rubbed my nose into his groin, the dark hair of his inner thigh rough against my cheek. Van loosened his grip in my hair, his fingers trailing down my cheek, he held my chin. “It’s more than okay.”

The pad of his thumb caressed my bottom lip, following a straight line down my jaw to my shoulder. I licked the underside of his cock from the base to the tip, dipping my tongue into his slit, immersing myself in his salty taste. Van hissed, his fingers digging into my skin, while his other hand moved softly through my hair. The two contradicting sensations prickled at my flesh, sending a flood of goosebumps down my arms as he pushed into my mouth. My lips stretched around the heavy head, and I wanted nothing more than to swallow him whole, show him how good this could feel. How goodIcould make him feel. He swore as I worked him deeper into my mouth, making it only halfway, my lips meeting my hand as I stroked him. Inch by inch he took my mouth, fucking into my throat until my nose dusted the dark patch of hair covering his pubic bone.

Van groaned, bucking his hips as I gagged, his fingers curling sharply into my skin, and without warning, his release exploded down my throat. “Oh fuck,” he panted as I struggled to swallow all of his load. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t be.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stood to my full height, smiling at the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Look at me.” He was breathless, his pupils dilated, his face splotched with red. “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Resting his forehead against mine, he laughed. “God, that was—”

“The best head you’ve ever had.” I grabbed the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him closer, shuddering as my dick rubbed against him. “I know I’m—”

Van crashed his lips into mine, his hand on the side of my face, and I stumbled back, dizzy with the taste of him still on my tongue, the pressure of his lips, and the urgent way he consumed me. Dropping his hand, he wrapped it around my shaft, jacking me slow—slow—so fucking slow.

“Van,” I whispered, covering his hand with mine and grunted as he squeezed me tighter. “Fuck… that’s good. Like that.”

He was rough, every stroke hard and relentless, until he found his rhythm. His teeth on my neck, my chin, my lips, the breathless sound of my voice as I said his name, my low, quiet groans seemed louder as I chased my climax. Pushing my back into the wall, he covered my mouth with his, stealing my breath and muting the sounds I couldn’t seem to control. My head tilted back, breaking away from his kiss as the familiar desperate burn spread from the bottom of my spine and my balls tightened. Van left a path of open-mouthed kisses on my overheated skin, from my neck to my navel, looking up at me with hesitation in his eyes. But before I had the chance to tell him I didn’t expect him to blow me, that he didn’t have to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, he leaned down and took the head of my dick into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ.” The surprising wet heat of his tongue almost pushed me over the finish line as he bobbed his head again and again and again.

Sloppy and uncoordinated, it didn’t fucking matter, I’d already been teetering on the edge, and I came with a string of expletives, my fingers buried in his hair. My body sagged against the tile as he stood, licking his lips. Neither of us said anything for what felt like minutes when, in reality, it was probably only a few seconds. I worried we’d gone too far, worried he’d felt forced to return the favor. The short high I’d been riding plummeted.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, raising his fingers to his mouth.

“If this is too much—if it’s too fast… I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t say no.”

“I didn’t want to say no,” he said, a deep flush cascading down his neck. “I wanted to know what you tasted like too. What it would feel like?”

I reached for his hand, turning it palm up, and rubbed the waterlogged, pruned tips of his fingers with my own. Feeling vulnerable, I might’ve needed a reason to hide my eyes, or an excuse to touch him. “What did you think? Terrible? Strictly chicks from now on?”

I tried to joke, but he didn’t laugh. “It was different… in a good way. I like the way you taste, Parker.” When I lifted my eyes, he was smiling. “I thought I was the only one who blushed.”

I exhaled a laugh and bit the corner of my lip as I palmed the juncture below my neck. “Only for you, professor.”

It was well past eleven by the time I’d gotten home from Van’s. The apartment was dark except for the grainy gray light flickering from the television. Marcos was sleeping on the couch, his mouth open, snoring like a goddamn bear. I debated on leaving him there, knowing in the morning I’d have to listen to him bitch about the crick in his neck. I nudged his knee and he grumbled something completely incoherent. Sighing, I picked up the half-eaten bowls of soup and brought them to the sink. I ran the water, rinsing them out, my mind somewhere else. With Van. Waffles and rain and books and blushes. Dirt and grass. Late-night showers and more firsts. I was still back at his house, the smell of his soap covering me. I lifted the collar of the t-shirt he’d let me borrow to my nose and inhaled the scent of his detergent.

“Are you sniffing yourself?” Marcos asked as he trudged into the kitchen with his coffee mug. He set it into the sink, his hair sticking up in every direction. “That’s fucking weird,mijo.”

“Glad to see you’ve risen from the dead,” I said and leaned against the counter as he grabbed another mug from the cabinet. “How are you feeling?”

Filling the cup with water, he shrugged. “Better, I think. I can actually taste the funk of my own mouth… that’s a good sign.”

“And it’s disgusting.”

“Fuck off.” He plopped two tea bags into the mug and put it into the microwave. “Nice shirt, by the way.” He looked over his shoulder, grinning like he had me all figured out. “Emory?”

I stared down at the University’s emblem stretching across my chest.

“It’s not mine.”

He raised his brows and pursed his lips. “You don’t say… Those aren’t your pants either, lover boy… last time I checked, you couldn’t afford designer clothes.”

“They’re just sweats.”

He leaned over and snapped the waistband. “Those are not justsweats. They’re Thom Browne, and I’m guessing your mystery man, aka sugar daddy, has money because those pants cost at least four-hundred dollars.”

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