Page 112 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Open your legs,” he commanded.
I spread my feet apart.
“Keep them just like that.” He tickled my arm with the feathers.
“Oh God, I begin to see the appeal here.”
“Speaking of which”—he took out an eye mask—“I need to do something about that.”
From that moment forward, Epic drenched me in sensation. He started by tickling me in places that weren't very sensitive at all. My shins. The tops of my arms. My hands. My feet.
And then he moved to places that tingled, that made me laugh, that made me squirm and groan and eventually, beg him to stop because begging was fun.
I didn’t safeword, even though what Epic was doing felt like a gentle form of torture. I loved his special edging technique, but because of the blindfold, I never knew what was coming. I could only feel. Was he going to tickle me, or suck me, or finger me to insanity?
The care with which he took me to the brink and then pulled me back again and again took timing and patience, and I thought, maybe, love. The tickles, kisses, and soft touches he used to drive me into ecstatic highs and maddening need took me to that special place where the only reality was Epic and sensation, and peace.
He’d concentrate the long crop with the feathered tip on places that were mildly sensitive or downright annoying. Then he’d go back to the top of my ass crack, my super ticklish ribs, the nape of my neck, my balls and my taint, and—gods—my hole. I could have come from his attention to my hole alone.
When the tickling stopped, he used massage oils that warmed my skin. He held ice in his mouth and gave cold kisses, licks, and shivery damp play bites to my nipples. He applied chilly suction to my cock and balls.
Over the course of a few hours, he raised goosebumps over my skin and ignited every nerve in my body. Yet he still didn’t let me come.
“Yellow. Please.” I finally mutinied by shoving off the mask. I cried out. “You littlemonster. Please. Please, let me come.”
“You come when I say. Not one second before.” He cupped my face and glared down at me. “Got that?”
Oh God, oh God, bossy Epic lit a fuse inside me.
“Yes. All right.” I heaved a shuddering sigh and prepared for the whole cycle to start over. “Yellow. No mask. I want to see you, please.”
“Fine.” He accepted my terms.
“I want to watch your face while you torture me.”
“Mm. You'd like that? You want to see me when I own your tight pink hole?”
“God yes.” Fingers of bright sunlight stretched into long golden bars on the floor before he relented and gave me what I asked for.
“Oh God.” My head fell back against the pillow. “Oh God. Let me come. Let mecome.”
That time, Epic didn’t stop. He sucked and swallowed until I was empty and limp—every muscle in my body loose and pulsing gently.
Epic crawled up beside me to undo the binding on my hands. We exchanged languid, cum-flavored kisses. I rolled him beneath me and lay between his legs.
“What do you need?” I asked.
He glanced at the clock. “What time is it?”
“Four-ish. You want to fuck me? You can pass out after for an hour, and we’ll still make the banquet.”
“You know me so well.” His cheeks darkened. “Is me dropping out like that a problem for you? I mean, I could probably stay awake, but I always feel so good. I let my eyes close and boom, it's like being a kid again and I nod off.”
Was that a gap in Epic’s self-confidence? “Of course not. If you need sleep, sleep. I think it’s charming.”
“Says the man who stays awake half the night worrying about work.”
