Page 76 of The Legend Next Door
Part of me melted. The rest of me solidified.
I told him to lie on his back yesterday to see if he’d do it again, the hand thing, and he did. Only yesterday, his head rolled to the side as I approached him, leaving his jugular completely exposed.
I nearly came on the spot.
I kissed him for ages to try to calm myself. I played with his nipples until they were dark pink before shifting my focus. I meant to run my tongue along the indents that grid his belly, and I did. I got to his navel, and then I meant to take his cock in my hand like I’ve done every other day since we started what we’re doing.
I didn’t though. I looked at it, stretched out and swollen, and I didn’t think. I didn’t think a single thing. My tongue extended on its own, and I licked a thick, broad stripe from his balls to the slit at his tip. As soon as I made contact, he bucked against me. Not his hips, just his cock. It kicked sharply against my tongue, and it was harder and hotter than I ever thought such a thing could be. The level of arousal it stoked in me is hard to describe.
I blew him yesterday, and I loved it.
I blew him again today, and best I can tell, I’m going to blow him every chance I get from now on.
We’re curled up together now. Sated and slow. Jeremiah’s on his side, facing me, and I have a leg thrown over him to keep him where I want him. Every time he tries to move, I clench it and trap him against me. It makes him laugh.
I can still taste him. In my mouth. Down my throat.
“Okay, okay,” I say, lifting my leg off and freeing him, only because I know he’ll be late to teach his yoga class if I keep him much longer.
I watch as he scurries around the room, retrieving his clothes and putting them on in the order he finds them. He currently has his T-shirt on, one sock, and nothing else.
It’s insane how adorable he looks. His cock dangles between his legs as he walks. It’s distracting, so I get up to hold it for him. Not to stroke it, just to cup it until he finds his underwear to do it for him.
Before I get to him, he turns, bends over, and searches under the chair in the corner for errant pieces of clothing.
The air in the room is sucked into a vacuum.
My jaw drops.
His ass is a thing of beauty. Pale and milky. Muscular enough that it dips ever so slightly at the sides. Fleshy enough that my teeth ache with the urge to bite down on something.
He straightens quickly, but the moment drags out. He’s standing now, hip cocked, one leg bent at the knee, looking away from me as he surveys my room thoughtfully. There are two perfectly curved cheeks peeking out from under his T-shirt, and a rampant heat spreads like wildfire under my skin.
“Jeremiah.” There’s gravel in my voice. Gravel and whatever it is that makes me find sweet, wild, wise, chaotic people with a meek streak completely and utterly irresistible. Jeremiah hears it, recognizes it, and doesn’t move except to turn his head toward me just enough to make eye contact.
I let my eyes travel down his back and settle on his ass.
“That.” I raise my hand and point a single finger at him. My speech is slowed. Thick like molasses. “I want that.”
His laughter is throaty and soft. Copper and tin. Like bells ringing.
He cocks his head at me, tilting it back so his eyelids are hooded.
Then he wriggles his hips purposefully.
His ass quakes gently from side to side.
I crash into him, catching him with an arm looped around his waist before he has time to run. His feet lift briefly, legs curling toward his body from the force of his laughter. My free hand is raised, middle finger dipped into my mouth before I have a clear plan of what to do next.
The second Jeremiah’s feet touch the ground, I touch him. My finger slides between his cheeks and finds its mark.
He yelps on contact. A loud sound that he bites in half and then into quarters. It bounces off the walls and hits me right in the balls. My cock stiffens.
I touch him again. Lightly. So lightly I’m hardly touching him at all. I’m just feeling him. Feeling where he opens and closes. He’s warm there. Puckered and tight. I stroke him, holding him tightly as he jerks and bucks against me, releasing him only when I remember he has a class to teach.
“I want that,” I say again. This time, gravel is mixed with whiskey.
He’s wild-eyed, pink-cheeked, and panting as he turns to face me. “It’s yours,” he whispers. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”
