Page 68 of The Legend Next Door
He steps from side to side and moans into my mouth every time I put pressure on him. I like that too.
Though I’m fumbling, there’s an urgency to my actions. An importance. A need. When I finally manage to wrestle him free, I look down and breathe in the sight that greets me.
His dick is erect. Pink, almost purple, and it’s slick at the tip. He’s cut, and the head of his dick is smooth and shiny from how swollen it is.
It’s inviting in a way I’m not expecting. Attractive in a way I feel low down. Fascinating in a base way that stirs old things up inside me.
I’m horny and nervous, trying to stroke him off but struggling to work out the right way to hold him. I’m making a mess of things. I try wrapping my hand around him with my thumb and forefinger closest to his body, but that feels uncomfortable, and I can’t get my rhythm right. I turn my hand so my pinkie is closest to his body, and I’m tugging at him, but that feels even more clumsy.
The whole time, Jeremiah keeps his eyes on me. Liquid blue burns brightly. His mouth opens and closes rhythmically, and each time I lean in to steal a kiss, he moans more. Not moans exactly, more like whimpers. More like the sound a small animal makes when it’s scared and you pet it.
I like it a lot.
I like it so much that, combined with the fact that I don’t know what I’m doing, it makes me laugh. I can’t stop. I’m not laughing, actually. I’m giggling. And I’m not really much of a giggler. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I heard a sound like this coming from me.
Every time I change the way I handle him, Jeremiah makes this cute little snarl and stomps his foot in frustration. I can hardly describe how much I love it. His cheeks are pink and he looks drunk. Really drunk. Drunker than the night of the curtains and all the tequila. Seeing him like this is more than hot. It’s intoxicating. Unexpected and surprising.
It’s more-ish.
Delectable.
Adorable.
Yes, it’s adorable. Jeremiah is adorable. It’s not a word I’d typically use in reference to men, but that’s what he is. He has this irrepressible cuteness about him. It’s the curls and those eyes and that face. It’s more than that though. It’s the way he carries himself. He holds himself on a ledge. On an edge. On the edge of everything. Every emotion is right there, under the surface. He’s on the cusp of embarrassing himself at any moment. The cusp of cracking a joke. The cusp of saying something so meaningful and deep that it makes me feel like it’s okay for me to do the same.
An old, familiar feeling rolls through me. It climbs up my back, making the hair on my neck stand on end. My field of vision narrows, and Jeremiah becomes my focal point. I have his head in one hand and his cock in the other. It’s good. It’s right. I want to keep him like this. I want to surround him. I want to guard and defend him despite the fact that he’s in no imminent danger. I want to mantle him with my body. My muscle and bone. I want to be near him. Close to him. So close that if anyone or anything approaches him, they’ll have to go through me to get to him.
The realization is a jarring. A blunt shock.
I’m protective of him.
I’m protective of Jeremiah.
Protectiveness is part of my nature. Part of who I am. Who I used to be. Who I’ve always been. It’s a brand of emotion I haven’t felt for many people. Something that usually takes a long time to develop. Something I only feel when the person inspiring it is significant to me.
I take a deep breath, hoping it will bring clarity. It does.
Jeremiah, the man in my arms, the man I want to keep from harm, needs something. He needs release. He needs to feel good. He needs to come.
It’s my job to make him feel good.
“C’mere,” I say, surprised and unsurprised by the rough edge in my tone.
I circle his waist with one arm and lift him off his feet, dragging him backward with me as I lie back on the sofa. He flails for a second as I arrange him, stilling when he has his back to my belly and he’s lying snugly between my parted legs. I tug at his jeans until the zipper rips open and his cock is freed completely. I shift myself up and shift him down until he’s right where I want him.
When I reach down now, his cock is exactly where I want it. It’s in reach. Easy reach between my legs. It’s almost where my own cock is. It’s almost like I’m stroking myself. It feels good. The angle is right. My grip is firm and sure.
I’m not laughing anymore.
He’s not whimpering either. He’s moaning now.
He’s hot in my hand. Familiar and new. Unknown and known. I stroke him the way I stroke myself. He thrashes in my arms, trying to keep still and take what I give him. His moans are pained. Perfect. The weight of him is solid and sturdy.
More than I’m used to.
Just what I want.
I hold him tightly with my free hand, arm wrapped around his chest so he knows I have him, and turn my head so he feels my words on his skin before he hears them.
