Page 42 of Confession
I keep nibbling and kissing at his neck as I lightly stroke him until precum is beading at his tip. I murmur in satisfaction and press harder against him. I stop stroking, but I hold onto him, letting the moment float.
He takes a deep breath, almost sighing, then turns to me. My hand is pulled away from his cock. I settle it on his hip. I sip my whiskey and look at him.
I’ve spent two years looking from the corner of my eye, stealing fuller glances only when his attention was elsewhere. It feels so indulgent to look at him like this now, full in the face, two feet away from me.
So much of his face I already knew. The hollow cheeks between his high cheekbones and defined jawline. The fine, straight nose and sensual lips. I know his dark eyes and the quirk in his left eyebrow. But I’ve never noticed the faint scar above his right temple. I’ve never see him look this vulnerable.
Maybe that’s why I close the distance, why I press my lips to his and kiss him.
It’s bliss. His lips are soft. He tastes like whiskey.
I’m the greedy one tonight, invading him with my tongue. He moans softly into my mouth.
But that’s all the submissiveness he has to give me. He steps close, grabs my ass, and pulls me into him until my stiff cock is pressed against his. I break the kiss and rest my face against the side of his neck as waves of arousal crash through me.
I breathe in the subtle scent of his cologne. “You smell good,” I tell him.
“So do you.”
“I don’t use anything.”
“I know. You just smell like you. And whiskey. I spilled on you.”
“I thought so.” I can feel it on my back.
“So you should probably take this off.” He steps back from me and grabs a handful of my shirt, which he starts tugging up, jostling my arm.
“You’re gonna makemespill.”
“Oh, most definitely,” he says as he gets my shirt to my pec and dives in to take my nipple in his mouth and suck.
My body convulses. “Stop.” I push him back. “You’re a pain in the ass. And no more double entendres,” I add hurriedly because I know where he’ll go with that. “They’re obnoxious.”
“No one has ever called me obnoxious before,” he informs me as he snatches my glass from my hand. “Now take off your damn shirt.”
I comply as he walks away with both drinks. He steps up onto the bed’s platform and sets the whiskey glasses on the bedside table. He pulls down the covers then sits on the bed to take off his boots before he comes back to me. I’ve moved to the foot of the platform, but apparently I’m not moving at his speed because he drops into a crouch at my feet and undoes my laces.
“You’re being very slow,” he grumbles.
“Yeah,” I agree and reach for the dark, shiny waves of his hair. I play with it a little bit, gently, marveling. I’m surprised at myself, doing this. I feel so open right now. Willing. I don’t know what to make of it.
Vitali looks up at me. He’s open too. I can see it in his eyes, that openness that I sensed earlier. He’s set this tone, has pulled me into it. This sex is going to be different from what we’ve done before.
I toe off my boots as he stands, then I take hold of his shirt and pull it up. He takes over and strips it off. His olive-tonedskin is flawless, a perfect tapestry for his intricate tattoos. It’s such a contrast to the ugly collection of scars on my own body.
With their geometric elements that speak of his Greek heritage and the intriguing swathes of ink, Vitali’s tattoos flow along the contours of his body. Fragments of images emerge here and there. Part of a wing. The eyes of a skull. Grasping fingers. Everything is beautifully interwoven and subtly, cryptically emotive.
He’s such a complicated person, more emotional than I think most people realize.
I reach for his zipper as he reaches for mine. Our actions are mirrored as we strip each other bare. Our needs are mirrored too. Vitali steps close and takes both our cocks in hand. He kisses me as he strokes us together. My dick pulses and kicks against his. His twitches back.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my mouth. I smile, enjoying his new experience, though my eyes are closed because, yeah, it feels really good.
Vitali’s thumb brushes at the corner of my mouth, telling me he’s felt my smile. He draws back and takes my hand, pulling me with him to the bed. I don’t think anyone’s every held my hand before, not even to lead me somewhere. Maybe it’s because I’m already so open, but it does something to my head.
I climb onto the bed as Vitali reaches into the drawer of the bedside table. He gets out a bottle of lube.
“I don’t have your toy collection,” he tells me as he crawls onto the bed over top of me. “But I do have a tongue.”
