Page 65 of Best Man
“Be completely still,” he mutters.
“I can’t,” I groan, feeling sweat drip into my eyes. “I need to move.Please.”
“No,” he whispers. “You’ll lie there and take it, Jess.”
“Oh, God,” I moan as he moves in a slow glide in and out. He brushes over my prostate and it feels like it’s swollen to twice its size. We’ve been doing this for what feels like hours. It’s safe to say that if edging was an Olympic sport, Zeb would be standing on the podium with a bunch of flowers.
He thrusts in slowly, and I try to stay still, but I can’t. Instead, I shove back on him, crying out in relief as his cock goes deep.
“Shit,” he snaps, his fingers tightening on my shoulders, and I can literally feel the moment his control snaps and he starts to thrust hard and fast, his balls banging my arse.
“Oh, I can’t–” I shout and he kisses my shoulder, the wet ends of his hair tickling my neck.
“You can come,” he pants, and I dig my face into the pillow and scream as I come, feeling the heat of Zeb as he falls down over me, holding me down in a hard grasp as he fucks into me and groans his way to climax.
For a second there’s just the sound of panting, and then I grunt as he pulls out of me and collapses at my side, his chest heaving.
“Shit,” I breathe, and he snorts.
“You can say that again.”
“Shit.”
I wait for his laugh. It pleases me more and more to hear him do that. The amount he’s done it over the last month has made me realise how little he laughed before.
I turn on my side and take the opportunity to ogle him while his eyes are closed. I have to seize these chances because he’s a little self-conscious about his body around me. I’d love to know why because he’s fucking gorgeous. I always knew he hid a good body under those swanky suits and I’m glad to report that I wasn’t wrong.
The last month has been filled with so many quirky dates. Weplayed board games on a rainy day at a little café in Waterloo and then ventured to climb the Whispering Gallery at St Paul’s where I scandalized Zeb by whispering what I wanted to do to him. We played darts at a small club where we used the board to decide our next drinks. I’d even organised an escape-room date where I’d been vastly amused to watch Zeb organise everyone into the most well thought out and polite escape the place had ever had.
Stretching luxuriously, I smile at the twinge in my arse because it’s well earned. Zeb and I have hardly set foot out of his bedroom for the last two days. We abandoned the dates and barricaded ourselves in, ordering in food occasionally to fuel us, but our attention has been totally on each other.
Each time the sex seems to just get better and better. The benefits of an older man in bed are legion, but chiefly because he has so much stamina, and that calm eye for organisation and details means that he can play my body like a fiddle. I’ve come harder and more often in the last month than I have in the last two years.
But it’s not just all been sex. In the mornings we’ve escaped the flat when it’s started to smell like an explosion in a salami factory. We’ve got coffee and wandered the streets of Covent Garden in the early morning sunshine as the shops started to open, wrapped in each other and talking intently.
For the first time I don’t feel like he’s looking at me as too young anymore. Instead he seems as fascinated by me as I am with him. We don’t seem to run out of things to say, discussing politics and religion or saying the lines from our favourite songs.
Zeb seems to have softened in some way. He’s still sarcastic. It’s a trait he can’t get rid of, and I’m glad of it. But he smiles more and laughs a lot, and I comfort myself that I can make him happy when Patrick couldn’t.
The only blips have been the constant texts from Patrick which Zeb checks and then dismisses, but that’s not going to work forever. Patrick is hovering on the surface like the dorsal fin inJaws.
Pushing thoughts of the wanker away, I cough pointedly. Zeb’s mouth quirks but he lifts his arm and I immediately snuggle closer,laying my head against that hairy chest and practically purring as he runs his hand through my hair in a lazy scalp massage.
We lie there for a few minutes as the sweat cools on our bodies. “I have a small confession to make,” he says, stirring.
I tense and lift up, resting my chin on his chest. “What?” I ask slowly.
“Do you remember saying you hadn’t done any pretend boyfriend jobs in ages?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it wasn’t by accident.”
“What?” He fidgets under me and I reach out, trapping him with my arms. “Oh no. You have to tell me now, Zeb Evans.”
I’m amused to see a faint flush on his cheekbones. “I stopped Felix booking you for any with young men last year,” he says so quickly that it takes me a few seconds to work out what he just said.
“I’m sorry,what?” I say.
