Page 71 of Hot Doggin'
“Mac, you close? Cause I’m gonna have to start thinking of gross shit if I have to hold out much longer.”
Somehow, through my laughter, I get myself there with his help. “I’m close.”
“You want me to blow inside of you?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out broken and high-pitched, and I don’t recognize my own voice, but that’s what he’s doing to me. Breaking me apart.
The slapping of my ass against his thighs couples with our ragged breaths, and the whole room smells like sweat and sex.
“Mac,” Stiles groans, digging his fingers into my ass.
“Holy shit, I can feel it. I can feel the heat of your cum.”
He gets this determined look in his eyes, fucking into me harder, with brutal thrusts until he pushes me over the edge with him.
I don’t scream his name. The only sound I can make is an unintelligible gurgle or moaning. A high-pitched cry. I can feel it throughout my entire lower half—total muscle paralysis. Collapsing against his body in a sweaty heap, I feel his cock begin to go soft, sliding out of me a little at a time until I squeeze and he slips out all the way, followed by a rush of warm cum dribbling from my hole.
It pools on his groin, and he chuckles. “Are you sore?”
“Not yet. But I will be.”
Cupping my face with both hands, Stiles plants a soft, deep kiss on my lips, like a claiming kiss. I feel used, satisfied, and like I belong to him now in ways I never did.
“I don’t give a fuck how bad my memory gets, I will never forget this,” Stiles vows.
I hope he means it because it would break my heart if he ever forgot this. “I love you.”
He squeezes me against his chest, crushing me in his strong arms. “God, I love you.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
STILES
Turning left down Pigeon Lane,I roll up the big hill and slow my bike to a stop in the driveway beside Mac’s truck. Warmth and pride make my heart grow too big for my chest.
I'm home.
When I walk through the front door, the smell of fresh paint lingers in the air. ”Hey, where you at?” I call out.
”Stiles?” Mac shrieks, sounding panicked. In one of the spare bedrooms that he turned into his office, I find Mac sitting at his desk in nothing but those ridiculous boxer shorts with hot lips printed all over. Camera equipment and lighting are set up, and he has his knitting out on the desk.
“The fuck you doing home so early?” Mac accuses.
“The shop was slow, so James cut me. He knows how much I have on my honey-do list now that I’m a homeowner.”
“Well… Well, next time, call first.”
“You want me to call you to ask permission to come home early? Am I missing something?” The lighting and camera equipment doesn’t sit right with me. Usually, when he’sjacking off to Betty Beasley videos, he doesn’t need all of this paraphernalia. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing! You know, knitting.”
“Is that code for jacking off?”
”Yeah. Sure. I was beating my meat.”
Considering how he usually tries to deny it, he’s giving in awfully easily, which makes me more suspicious. I glance at his computer screen, trying to get a better idea of what’s going on, but I don’t see Betty’s video on pause. I see Mac. He scrambles for the mouse to shut the computer down, and I have to lean into him with my shoulder to shove him out of the way.
