Page 142 of Good Losers (Lochkelvin Academy)

Instead, I moan lasciviously around Rory’s cock. It’s enough to make his lips part and for him to let out a breathy, needy, “Fuck.”

One word, and that’s all the warning I get. His release throbs, spilling down my mouth in a hot, sticky rush that overwhelms me. He comes in waves, one lashing against the next, until I have no option but to act. I have it in me to spit it out, to slide it past my lips and back down onto Rory’s slick, warm length. But the sheer weight of his seed feels like a gift, a victory, and so I swallow his release down in one deft bob of my throat.

“Little saint,” Rory whispers, and this time he presses my head as close to his body as possible, his fingers as tight as his voice is loose, sated. I give a muffled moan around his unsoftened length. His hips shudder up and into me, encouraging me to milk his cock for more of his precious, thickened cum, globules of which slip past my lips and slop obscenely down my chin.

Rory gazes at me like he doesn’t know what to say. Like I’m worthy of his rare, reverent silence. His cock still pulses in my mouth, massaged by my tongue, while his head lolls back, languid, against the headrest. His hand is still curled inside Finlay’s, and Finlay stares at us both like he’s never going to let us go.

I realize then that the taxi’s come to a halt.

That I made Rory Munro come in the back of a filthy taxi like a common street whore.

His cock, wet and shiny with saliva and cum, breathtakingly lewd in a public environment, pops free from my mouth. With slow fingers, Rory carefully rebuttons his pants, zipping them up and tucking in the hem of his crisp shirt. He maintains a steady hand on the crown of my head, keeping me locked in position by his feet, as though he wants nothing more than to prolong my existence there. He refuses to remove his eyes from my face, taking a picture with his memory for his eternal use.

“So how much is that?” he drawls to the driver, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. Anyone else would think him a thoroughly arrogant fucker to speak like this after what just happened. Anyone else wouldn’t detect the note of sleepiness, that the scant energy inside his sated body can only muster a low, monotonous drawl.

There’s a brief silence from the driver’s seat. Rory pets the top of my hair as he waits for an answer and I lean into him, needy for more. The answer, when it comes, croaked and clearly debated, is not one that any of us expects.

“For you lot?” the driver manages. “Nothing.”

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