Page 85 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“Nothing. Just do you…are we…am I not satisfying you?”

“Where did that come from? I love sexytimes with you.”

“Well.” His frown intensified. “I can’t help notice you have gathered masturbatory aids with the determination of a squirrel preparing for a long winter.”

I couldn’t help giggling at the image. Arden St. Ives: wanksquirrel. “I like getting myself off. I mean, not more than I like someone else doing it. I’m into both is what I’m saying.”

This was not an ideal time for there to be silence. I knew because silence happened. And kept happening.

“Um.” I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m feeling slightly slut-shamed here. For your information.”

“That was not my intention. I’m simply…somewhat startled.”

“I don’t see why. Everyone masturbates.”

“Yes, but I’ve always treated it as little more than a necessity.” His gaze skittered away from mine.

Great. Now I’d made him uncomfortable. Turns out, talking about wanking was a hot potato of social awkwardness. Who’d have thought it?

“I’m pretty sure that’s the general cultural perception,” I said. “But I guess I don’t really see masturbation as a lesser form of sex. Just a different one. Also you’ve made me say masturbation about eighty-seven times, which is embarrassing, so you owe me an apology.”

He ducked his head to hide what was blatantly a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

He was quiet again. And then, very softly, “I love the glimpses of the world I see through your eyes.”

Wow, this was like that scene in that movie where the guy is super moved by the beauty of a plastic bag blowing in the wind. Except it was my penis. I wasn't entirely sure how to respond, apart from, y’know, graciously because he’d given me a compliment. “Um, thank you.”

Caspian gave me a tense little smile. And I was still sitting there, with his dick in my hand. So far Operation Hand Job wasn’t anything close to the gently erotic experience I’d had in mind. In fact, it was hard to imagine how it could have gone worse without one of us sustaining actual physical injury. Or my mum and his mum walking in on us simultaneously. Probably the sensible thing to do at this point was give up.

But fuck sensible. And fuck giving up. I’d damn near demanded Caspian’s trust. And so far all I’d done with it was intimidate him with my array of personal lubricants and get defensive about my masturbatory habits.

I had to fix this.

Obviously I needed to say something reassuring. Although the only things I could think of—just relax, it’s going to be okay—made it sound like I was about to laser off a verruca or give him a colonic irrigation.

“Okay,” I announced. “Hand job time.”

Caspian gave a splutter of amusement.

Which, y’know, was better than nothing. I’d lost ground in erection terms, but I wasn’t too concerned. If anything, it was part of the experience: coaxing him languorously to arousal between my palms. As far as I could tell, most people jerked off as if they were late for an orgasm appointment. Me, I took the scenic route. And, soon enough, Caspian was with me for the journey, his cock hot and hard, silky with lube, and shudderingly responsive to my caresses.

I didn’t actually have any magic wanking techniques. And who had time for all that “make an O with your thumb and index finger” Cosmo nonsense? It was about paying attention. Taking your time. Enjoying what you were doing. And, God, was I enjoying myself. There was an intimacy to this that I absolutely loved.

I mean, of course there were a bunch of ways to get intimate with someone else’s cock—but the thing about having one inside you was that it was difficult to really appreciate the, well, the subtleties. The flushes of color that rushed over the head. The tender stretch of the foreskin, with its dark, dancing veins. All the places he was extra sensitive. The puzzle-box of touches that made him arch and drip, and turned his breathing ragged.

“Arden?”

I glanced up dreamily. “Yes?”

“Talk to me.”

For a second or two, I was topic bereft. But then I realized he probably didn’t want to discuss the political situation in Syria. Keep me with you, he’d told me once. Slipping a hand under his balls, I treated them to some attention. “How’s this feel? Good?”

“That’s not talking to me. That’s asking me things.”

“It’s engaging you in conversation. It counts.” To make my point, I lightly circled the exposed delta of tissue on the underside of his shaft.

---