Page 20 of Wild Obsession

AFTER ALL THESE years, I finally have Tim on his knees for me.

We never got this far in high school. I was ready to try just about anything, but Tim wasn’t. He always held back. He always stopped us at making out and dry humping. It was infuriating, but I was willing to wait. I thought I’d crack him open over time. I thought he’d be worth it.

I didn’t think it would take eight fucking years.

Now here he is, kneeling on the floor of the shower, water pouring over him as he gazes up at me and holds his pathetic dick in his hand. The worshipful look in his eyes is worth poems and paintings and songs, but I hold my ground and give him nothing. He’s not getting off that easy after all this bullshit.

I run my finger around the band of my pants, grazing the tip of my cock where it pokes free. Tim’s eyes follow every move, his mouth dropping open with naked hunger. Jesus, he really does want me that badly. He wants something, at least. Maybe twenty-five years have left him so pent up he’s even willing to accept the guy he rejected.

I drag my finger upward, and never has one finger left such a wanton trail of destruction in its wake. Tim all but pants, even though I do little more than trace up to my belly button, bringing my shirt up with me. That sliver of waist and the hair trickling down toward my cock actually makes Tim swallow as he devours it with his eyes.

I take a steadying breath. The devotion in his gaze goes straight to my cock, igniting unwelcome heat, but, well, if we’re doing this, we might as well do it. Why go to all this trouble if I’m not going to get off?

I hike the shirt up higher, using both hands, but stopping just when I might pull it off over my head. Tim groans over the drumming of the water hitting the shower basin.

I cluck my tongue. “Greedy.”

“Yeah,” he says without a beat of hesitation.

“You want me to keep going?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

“Hmm.”

I lower the shirt. Tim winces as though this physically pains him. Then I shrug and pull off my shirt at last, tossingit casually on the floor.

Tim’s eyes drink me in. They all butshine, like I’m the sun and he’s burning his retinas looking directly at me. I’ve put a lot of guys on their knees, but none of them have looked at me quite like this. It’s dangerously addicting.

Tim flinches when I slam a palm against the glass of the shower door. Standing above him like this, I’m in the perfect position to feed him my cock. Or I would be, if the glass didn’t stand between us. A beat of insanity rushes through me, and my very worst instincts rear up to whisper that I should throw open the door and shove my cock down Tim’s throat. There’s no way he’d stop me, not when he’s panting up at me like this.

I barely rein myself in. Tim isn’t getting what he wants that easily. I can sleep with whoever I want, and in the past eight years, I have. I don’t need him, and I certainly don’t need to reward him just because this adult version of him is even more pathetic than the idiot I met in high school.

I reach into my pants, palming over myself while Tim watches. I don’t need to fuck him to tease him. I can ruin him without ever touching him.

“You want my cock, straight boy?” I say, letting my voice dip lower.

“Not straight,” Tim says.

“Oh? You’ve never had a cock in your mouth though, have you?”

Tim shakes his head.

“Then how do I know you’re not lying?”

He drags his eyes up from my hand moving inside my pants, his gaze sun-bright. “I’m not lying.”

I know. I know he’s not. He’s always been so God damn earnest. That’s part of the problem with this guy. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to simply accept his confession.

“Then open your mouth,” I say. “Open it like you’re going to let me fuck your straight boy throat until it’s raw.”

He opens his mouth wide. I stroke myself, letting my hand push my loose pants and boxer briefs aside. Tim keeps his mouth open, but his eyes shoot back down to my dick. His breath fogs the glass before him, despite the heat of the shower itself. He starts stroking himself in time with my movements, rocking himself toward his fist.

“That’s a good boy,” I say in a low rasp. “Kneeling there waiting for me. What a good boy you can be.”

He doesn’t respond, but his chest puffs, that broad, lightly furred chest he’s gained over the years. I can imagine how he’d squeal and squirm if I got my hands on those pecs and tweaked his perky pink nipples. I’m not even touching him and his whole body thrums with sensitivity. I could seal my lips over one of those nipples and tug with my teeth until he whined and cried. I could do so much if I only got my hands on him, but I remain on the other side of the glass, stroking myself as though I’m not buzzing with want.

His free hand thuds against the glass. The pane rattles in its track. Tim’s big paw leaves a handprint on the fogged upglass. That hand would fit real good around my cock, but I don’t go for the door of the shower. I remain standing before him, stroking myself, cock pointed at his face.

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