Page 141 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

But I’m not fine. I’m not fine at all. My heart is thudding in my chest, trying to make a break past my ribs, each loud slam a reminder of how novel this moment is. Only when I glance up at Rory does the world stop spinning and I find my center. I remember why I’m positioned here in the first place, crouched in front of his neatly creased pant legs, between his polished black brogues.

When I reach forward and undo Rory’s button, there’s a lazy, arrogant smile on his face. When I lower his zipper with fingers I pray won’t shake, the smile widens. The hiss of metal teeth mingles with my suppressed swallow, and beneath the tips of my fingers, beneath the soft cotton blend of his boxer-briefs, I feel the hardening length of Rory’s weighty cock.

And all around me are eyes. Eyes and a thick, choking silence.

Rory doesn’t care. His gaze never leaves my face. Whenever I chance a glance at him, there he is, watching my descent into sweet depravity like it’s fascinating.

The only thing fascinating is the effect he has on me.

I crawl forward, parting his knees slightly to open his legs. Heat flashes in his eyes, now a dark silver. I drown out the rest of the world and focus only on Rory, on the visible bulge, thick with shade, that lies beneath his boxers.

With curious fingers, I unfurl the elastic waistband. His heavy erection pushes proudly upward, as though on its own desperate accord, its crown red and fat and shiny in the dark.

At the emergence of Rory’s cock, it begins to feel more real. This is really happening, and it’s not a dream in my own head.

There’s a powerful sense of urgency, not just in this mad backseat encounter, but in the way the driver slams the pedal and whisks us full-speed ahead. As Edinburgh blasts past us in a riot of color blurred by the fogged window, there’s no time to admire, to lovingly cherish every single inch of Rory’s cock the way I want. Not when the ride across town could end at any moment, when the hotel could spring into life and the driver could chuck us out.

But God, do I want to.

With Rory’s cock at my eye level, the world begins to become deciphered primally. A level made up of bodies and touch and the five basic senses, not the higher intellectual level, the one that supposedly separates us from other animals, that tugs us away from this: from worship, from adoration, from no-strings sex.

With one last look at Rory’s handsome, lust-glazed face, I lower my mouth onto his warm, straining cock.

He hisses as if I’ve hurt him, as if my lavishing tongue is a masterfully aimed whip, striking him over and over until he conforms to the path that’ll lead him to shatter. But it’s not just Rory who makes a noise — that masculine, heady groan that spikes fire into my blood. Beside us, Finlay’s head rolls against the back of his seat, chanting in a soft mutter, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” as though it’s him who’s currently on the receiving end of a sloppy, backseat blowjob.

And it is sloppy. It has to be, with the taxi vrooming on ahead, tires squealing whenever there’s a red light, engine sputtering like it’s close to collapse. I slide my hands along Rory’s inner thighs, digging my fingers into his flesh to ground me.

I notice then, in the quiver of Rory’s quads, that it’s not me who’s shaking anymore. It’s not me who’s open and vulnerable and unsure. At some point, an exchange of power has occurred without either of us realizing it.

Captured by the glitter in Rory’s blown pupils, I give Rory a long, lingering lick up his arrow-straight shaft. I keep one hand curled around the thick base of his jutting cock, the ceaseless bumps of the taxi helping to pump it. I nuzzle the soft, fawn waves around the root of his cock. It brings to mind a long-admired obelisk rising from golden sand.

I kiss along his skin, inhaling with primitive urge the scent of soap and man, and for whatever reason, the combination of Rory so close beside me is enough to make my mouth water.

I tease his length with my lips, caressing his velvet shaft with soft kisses. I lick, languid and slick, along the underside of his cock, feeling it, impossibly, swelling yet further. I take him whole into my mouth, into the warmth and the wetness, and again he releases a roughened groan, his fingers digging into the blades of my shoulders.

A private part of me, clamped down upon like the rest of this sex fantasy, wants him to tug at my hair. It wants him to push down on my head, to order me, in a catching, imperious tone, to worship his cock until he comes brutally inside me. It wants him to thrust into my throat and erupt so far down me that tears prickle and slide from his force.

Rory does none of these things. He may behave like a rich, entitled jerk, but he’s also a well-bred one, and one everlasting rule is to treat a woman with a semblance of respect.

So his hands don’t bury into my hair. They don’t yank my head closer, pinning me into place so I can do nothing but let him fuck my mouth. Instead, they scrabble hopelessly on the material of the taxi’s seat, until, with a tentative extension of his arm, as though he anticipates automatic rejection, Finlay reaches out and holds Rory’s right hand.

Rory doesn’t react, but I meet Finlay’s gaze through the shadows and over Rory’s cock. As I slide my tongue along our shared obsession’s wide, flared crown, Rory’s jaw clenches, his hand slowly tightening around Finlay. And Finlay looks like he isn’t daring to breathe at all.

“Keep doing that,” Rory murmurs to me, as soft and smooth as dinner party chatter, as though his cock isn’t currently swelling inside my mouth.

Ikeep doing that, squeezing the base of his cock inside my palm and suckling abundantly across his tip, spreading the slippery gloss of precum up and down his length.

His eyes slide closed in bliss, and Finlay, perhaps seeing this as his opportunity, begins to watch him guilt-free. He absorbs all the tiny details of Rory’s face in this private moment that, for whatever reason, he decided to make so public — every little spasm that spreads along his lips with pained fascination, Finlay’s hand still enclosed tightly around Rory’s.

The taxi swerves with a rattling roll around yet another corner, and this time Rory pins my hair to the side of my temple with a firm palm. With a happy start, I realize he wants to see me, he wants to watch me devour every inch of his stiffened cock as he arches his hips and feeds it straight into my mouth.

“You’re insatiable,” he mutters like he barely believes it, and I glow at the praise in his tone. Turns out Iaminsatiable; I’m insatiable if it means pleasing Rory.

And so, with enthusiasm, I drag Rory close to the edge. I keep him there, lapping my tongue over the indent of his slit until he hisses and groans but never once tells me to stop. His body judders beneath me, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it too far, if he’s about to explode straight down my throat. But then he relaxes fractionally under me, his cock still as hard as an iron bar, as he slinks along the edge once again.

The taxi fills with moans and groans, and neither of us bothers to hide them.

I want to look up at Rory. I want to see the strange agony on Finlay’s face. I want to know what the fuck Danny and Luke are doing, if anything, behind me, though I have the sudden image of Danny with the balloon shielding his and Luke’s eyes, occasionally peeking around it, and I have to choke back a laugh.

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