Page 8 of Taste

“Wait your turn,” he hissed back as he let my trousers drop to the floor, and my hand flew up to cover my mouth, preventing another loud groan when he fell to his knees and licked a wet line up my cock. Just like that, I was exposed and helpless and being blown apart by the man I apparently couldn’t resist. The man I disliked to the point of not doing my job properly.

I closed my eyes and bit down on my hand to stop myself screaming out in frustration. Then I slapped my arm against the toilet wall in some badly directed anger, banged my head against the hard tiles in agony as his tongue teased the slit of my cock. I looked down in distress at myself, leaking shamelessly as he sucked my balls into his mouth, his tongue teasing the skin underneath my sack. Eyes closed and his voice humming, he leant back and then swiftly swallowed me down.

My fingers found his hair, tangling in the softness of his messy topknot, while his kneaded my bare arse as he bobbed up and down, letting me grip his head so I could use his mouth, fucking into him as his eyes watered and his fingers trembled against my skin.

He shuffled on the floor, spreading his knees so he could jerk himself off, and I started to lose it, his other hand now working my cock in perfect alliance with his tongue. I knew he was enjoying me watching him, I could tell from the way his mouth curled into a smirk every time he came off my dick, licking his lips in wonder before sucking me straight back down his throat. He was good at this as well, working me into the state I was in. Despite all my jealousy and rage, I had to admit he was a masterful cocksucker.

He couldn’t stay still, and I couldn’t stay quiet, grunting when my cock hit the back of his throat. He shuddered when I pushed his face against my groin. He was gasping for breath, but I held him harder, only releasing him when he signalled for me to do so. He briefly came up for air only to willingly swallow me straight back down, another noisy breath escaping his flaring nostrils.

I gave him a couple of good, hard fucks, thrusting into that willing warmth, as he looked up at me with wet eyes. I wanted so badly to go harder, to punish him for all that rage pulsing through my veins. I wanted him to beg. I wanted those tears I knew I could so easily extract from him, and I wanted him to completely fall apart as he took my punishments. Perhaps I even wanted him to thank me for it. Plead for me to give him more. Make him earn whatever it was I was giving him.

But in a moment of clarity, I pulled out. I was no better than him. All the rules and ideals and goals I set for myself, and I was right here, breaking every single one of them. I stroked his cheek, trying to calm his panting and obvious distress—or perhaps it was arousal; he was hard to read—as I tried to slow my madly beating heart.

“Do it again,” he croaked, opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue. “Let me have you.”

Who was I to judge?

I could have pulled up my trousers and walked away. I could have said that small word, no. I could have done a million things to make this right and salvaged the tiny bit of decency that remained in my traitorous bones.

But somehow I couldn’t. My hands fisted his hair, and my dick once again slammed straight into the back of his throat as he helplessly gagged on my length and made those desperate noises, his hands flying up to pound against my groin as I held him down, pushing further in until his head was jammed against the toilet door. With small, jerky movements, I fucked his mouth, barely letting him come up for air.

He slapped my leg. I let him go.

“More,” he said, sucking in a breath as I pushed back into that delicious dirty mouth of his, feeling the slow-moving static overwhelm my brain as I fucked the living daylights out of his poor throat. At the last second, I pulled out of his mouth and spilled my seed all over his flushed face, my release mixing with his tears, painting a breathtakingly debauched picture beneath me.

Mark Quinton. On his knees. Staring at me with a face full of wondrous…I couldn’t read him. Not at all. Couldn’t read a single one of those emotions he usually carried on his sleeve.

I didn’t dare let my gaze linger on what I had done, so I closed my eyes. I simply couldn’t look at him. The vision beneath me was too beautiful. His eyes closed, his mouth twisted, his teeth biting his lip as his hand flew over his length through those last few seconds of delicious pain before his orgasm claimed him.

I had painted his face. He painted the crumpled heap formerly known as my trousers, which were pooled around my feet in front of him. His come turned the grey fabric to pinstripes, and all I could do was stroke his hair as my breath steadied and his head rested heavily against my naked thigh.

We stayed like that for what seemed like hours, yet it could only have been minutes before he stood and turned away from me. Pulled up and fastened his jeans. Tucked his stupid shirt into his waistband and opened the stall door. Walked with unsteady steps to the sink. Turned the taps with shaking hands. Bent down and washed away every trace of me from his face. Combed his wet fingers through his hair. Refused to meet my eye in the mirror.

He walked out the door and left me standing there with my shirt wide open and my softening cock on display.

I should have hurled a final insult for him to linger on, or just given him a one-fingered salute and a heckling laugh. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I felt like my heart was breaking into a million pieces.

I was almost forty years old, and this was what I had become? Even with the socialising and other strange stuff I had allowed myself to be roped into recently, this was a brand-new low. What I was doing was dangerous and slightly insane, and I had no idea what the hell was wrong with me.

MARK

We avoided each other for weeks after that evening. I turned around in the corridors if I spotted him coming towards me. He shut the door if I walked past his office. I sent my staff to relay anything he needed to know, and he never set foot past the entrance to the restaurant area if I was on duty.

Our impromptu system worked well. There were grumbles from the sales staff that we needed to have urgent meetings. There were promotions to arrange, deals that needed to be done and costing to be hashed out, but I started sending my maître d’hôtel Mabel to handle those Friday morning meetings.

Finn Christensen was keeping an equally low profile. I would sneak a glance towards the reception desk when I checked the day’s bookings on the screen by the restaurant entrance. The glass and space that separated us was a welcome safety measure, but where I should have been delighted by our fully booked dinner service, I felt out of the loop and out of control, not being fully involved in every angle of the operation.

My impulsiveness and childish traits were parts of me that people saw on the outside, but I didn’t like not having total control on the inside. It rocked me off my routine. I hated not knowing exactly what was going on in those meetings. More than anything, I hated Christensen for rocking my world off its well-practised axis.

He was currently at the reception desk, dealing with a family checking out, his usually pursed lips breaking into a beaming smile when one of the children waved a toy in front of his face. I grimaced out an involuntary smirk, seeing him looking happy, because happy was not Finn Christensen’s natural state, and I found myself drifting into those thoughts again—the ones that had been popping up more frequently in these last weeks, like red flags in my already anxious state.

I was heading straight back down into another bout of depression. I should’ve recognised the signs by now and figured out how to handle these episodes better, but I knew there was not much I could do to stop this. I’d had a good run lately, feeling positive and motivated, my success being measured in the small things, like the fact that I was able to get out of bed in the mornings and eat full plates of food.

They called it high-functioning depression, the doctors and psychologists and whatever. I’d seen so many medical professionals over the years, but I suppose the description fitted me well. I sailed through waves of feeling fine, where I adjusted to routines and regular meals and a stable metabolism. Then I’d slide, and one by one, I’d deplete the reserves my body had built until I was drained and exhausted. But the peaks and lows were mostly manageable, and I took my medication like clockwork and tried to sustain my physical health on a small menu of palatable foods.

Work was my lifeline, and I didn’t like the idea of letting down those people who relied on me, but I could see it coming, the darkness slowly trickling in. Somehow, I had to prepare myself for the inevitable fall from grace when the always-gregarious Mark Quinton would have to excuse himself from life and go into hiding until he could piece his fragile sanity back together again. The lows of depression were a heavy beast, and I’d carried her in these waves throughout my adult life. I was successful and brilliant and loved. I knew that. I just wasn’t well equipped to handle the burden of all that weight on my shoulders. I wasn’t good for other people when I couldn’t even be good to myself.

I blamed Finn Christensen this time around because where my sexual encounters were usually the one thing to lift my mood, that stupid impulsive toilet blow job had completely shredded the small fragments of confidence I’d had left.

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