Page 64 of The Idiot

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” A disbelieving puff of air ghosts past his lips. I want to kiss them so badly, but don’t know if that level of intimacy is in his exploration plan. “It feels… strange.”

“Good strange or bad strange?”

Swallowing, his gaze flicks to mine. “Good? I… never thought this would feel so good.”

“Wait till you start stroking them.”

His eyes widen like the idea shocked him, but then he glances down and his hand moves. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning as his grip bumps over the ridge of my cockhead.

“Oh, shit,” he rasps in approval, palming my back with his other hand.

Dipping my head, I nuzzle his throat and trace a circle with my thumb over the side of his hip. I’ve seen his hips thousands of times, but now I’m touching the bare skin of one of them. It’s unreal and blows my risqué fantasies out of the water.

“Tighter,” I murmur against his neck. “I know you jerk harder than that.”

He listens, accepting my challenge. I don’t know if it’s his competitive streak, but I like that he listens, and I like the results of him listening.

His little grunts vibrate against my lips as he finds a rhythm. I can feel his hips kicking upward into his grip, seeking more. I’m glad I’m not the only one spiraling. I want to see him undone, undone because of me—because ofus.

Huffing, he stills. “It’s not enough. I need… more.”

“Grip us tighter. You won’t break my dick.”

“I’m not worried about your dick. This is my bad wrist. Maybe it’s only equipped for one cock,” he gripes, sounding pained in more ways than one.

For fuck’s sake. If he chooses right now to start bitching about that time he broke his wrist when we were twelve, I’m going to jerk myself off onto his stomach with no regrets. It’s been eighteen years, and I’ve still not heard the end of it. I told him not to ride his bike down that ravine.

Pressing my forehead to his, I reach between us. “You’re such a whiner.”

I wrap my hand around his and squeeze, killing whatever rebuttal was on his lips. His mouth falls open and stays that way as I guide our strokes. Morbid satisfaction courses through me. Someone just forgot about the world’s most tragic wrist injury.

“Better?” I croon, stroking in time with his eager thrusts.

“Yeah. Shit, that’s amazing.”

We fill his tiny cabin with heady breaths and groans. The mattress is shifting so much, I don’t know if it’s from us or if the ship is still rocking.

I feel his open mouth press against my shoulder. His fingers are digging into my back so hard, I think there’ll be five little bruises later. He’s close. I can feel it in the tension of his body, in the solidity of his balls each time they brush against mine.

“Did… did you come?” he asks between gulps. “It’s so wet. Wetter than before.”

Oh, Jesse. Crushing my lips against the side of his face is just an excuse to taste his skin.

“It’s you. You’re leaking all over me.” Moving to his ear, I whisper, “So fucking filthy.”

“I… am not.”

His hips falter, and he sucks in a breath. Liar. Such a damn liar.

“Are too. Is there even enough left to come all over my cock?” I dare just before I capture the shell of his ear with my teeth.

The wail he lets out is so loud it startles me. Head jerking back, his cock pulses in my hand. That face, completely helpless to his arousal, snaps whatever thread in me that was holding back.

“Yeah! Give me all of it,” I growl.

Pouncing on his neck, I suck at the engorged vein there like a vampire. My hand working overtime, I batter my grip like it’s my mission in life. Jesse’s broken moans, his nails digging into my shoulder; they feed me. I come so hard I see spots behind my eyelids.

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