Page 69 of The Legend Next Door
“Show me,” I murmur, moving my hand and replacing it with his. He whines and thrashes but obeys immediately, and fuck, the things that does to me. I watch, transfixed, as he jerks himself. He presses down on the base with his thumb and uses his other hand like a hole, sliding it up and down. He works his shaft hard, carefully avoiding the tip.
It’s hot in a way that makes me feel crazy.
“Keep your thumb there,” I say, replacing his dominant hand with mine and stroking him the way he stroked himself.
He feels the same as me but different. He’s a little smaller. More compact. Sinewy to touch and maybe more sensitive, given the way he’s bucking.
I’m learning, watching, observing, trying to work him out, and then I’m not.
His hot, hard body struggles and rattles my cage until a deadbolt slides loose, and I break free. I know these sounds, these noises, these feelings. I know the tension in his body. The way he’s arching and clutching at my arm.
“You’re going to come for me,” I tell him.
And he does.
Instantly.
Spectacularly.
He swells in my hand and tenses so hard it’s like he’s made of concrete. A second later my hand is flooded with heat that overflows onto his belly. He winces, and his whole body trembles with each subsequent spurt.
He’s boneless afterward. Sleepy and drugged. Hardly able to lift his own head. All the same, he sinks to his knees and opens his mouth for me as I unbuckle my belt and unzip my fly. He looks so sweet kneeling for me it makes my face hot. He licks me and mewls, sucking me once or twice before resting his head on my thigh and using his hand when his head becomes too heavy to hold up on his own. He attempts to stroke me, his grip loose and uncoordinated. Adorable. Addictive.
I run my fingers through his hair. “Just open your mouth, okay, baby? All you have to do is swallow what I give you. I’ll do the rest.”
When he does as I ask, I see gratitude and acceptance stoking embers in his eyes. Tiny flickers that light up where like, want, and need intercept.
I clamber to my feet, spreading my legs and looking down at him.
He’s gorgeous.
Pleasure roars through me as I circle myself firmly. Heavy reverberations shake the ground I’m standing on. There’s pressure everywhere. Urgency. It’s universal. It’s all I know. It builds quickly, growing dizzyingly, mind-numbingly fast into something bigger than me. My hips rock. My fist clenches. Jeremiah tilts his head back and shows me his tongue.
I come so hard that black and gold dots dance on the ceiling.
I’m on the sofa. On my back. Lying down. Floating. Jeremiah swallowed everything I gave him, and for good measure, he licked me clean afterward. When we were done, he stood and got us water from the kitchen. He must have because there are two half-full glasses on the coffee table and the downlights over the stovetop are on now and they weren’t before. The light is finding the irregularities in the tile and making them glitter.
Jeremiah is curled against my chest, lying on his side with his legs curled up tightly. Every time my pulse slows, he whispers, “Thank you,” and makes it race again.
I drift. Conscious thought fades and goes dim. I dip in and out. Sailing across cerulean waters when my eyes close, finding solid ground when they open.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but I think it’s a long time. It must be because I feel like I’ve healed from a long illness when I wake. Like I’ve had one of those sleeps you have when you have a high fever. When you’re hot and feverish when you go down, and you wake up weak but new.
Jeremiah has rallied. He’s recovered faster and better than I have. He’s still on me, but he’s not curled up anymore. He’s stretched out, belly-to-belly, propping himself up with his arms on my chest. He’s looking at me expectantly. He’s animated and has the look of one primed for a lively conversation.
“You okay?” I check, even though a fool could see he’s bounced back just fine.
“Oh, I’m hundreds,” he chirps. “Hungry but hundreds. Hungry, hundreds, and wired.” I’m not sure whathundredsmeans exactly, but I’m guessing something along the lines of a hundred percent. That’s good. I want him to feel good. I want him to feel a hundred percent fine. That’s important to me. “More to the point though. How do you feel?”
“Hundreds,” I mumble, giving a weak thumbs-up. “Came hard.”
“I’m aware.” He laughs, slapping my chest softly. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, how are you about everything.”
He does that thing where he climbs into my mood and holds it open.
He isn’t rough. He does it slowly and gently. So slowly and so gently that I have no way of putting up my defenses.
The thing about me is I like being the one who’s fine. The one who’s strong and in charge. It’s a big deal to me and a big part of who I am. The thing about Jeremiah is that he’s under my skin, and I can’t keep secrets from him.
