Play It Again

by Regina Kyle

  His voice tails off into another groan as my thumbs work on a particularly tough knot.

  “We’ll get to that.” I massage my way toward the center of his back, between his shoulder blades. “Eventually.”

  Just not in the cramped, cracked-vinyl back seat of an aging yellow cab with the equally aging driver checking us out in his rearview mirror every chance he gets.

  “Holy shit that feels fantastic,” Chris mumbles into his chest.

  I can’t help myself. I lean down and kiss the back of his neck, not caring if the cabbie’s sneaking a peak at us. Let him look. A little kiss never hurt anyone. “Magic piano fingers, remember?”

  He lifts his head and shoots me a hungry look over his shoulder. “You realize all this is doing is making me even more horny.”

  “All? What about my skills as a masseuse? This is professional-level attention you’re getting here. You can’t tell me it’s not loosening you up.”

  My fingers inch down his spine to his lower back, just above his waistband. I’m dying to rip off his suit jacket and pull his dress shirt from his fancy pants, to work my hands underneath and feel bare skin under my fingertips. But I’m not willing to give the cab driver that much of a show, so skin-on-skin will have to take a back seat. Pun intended.

  “You know what I mean,” he says on a moan. “I fucking need you. Now. I’m not going to be able to wait until we get to your place.”

  The cab jerks to stop, and I drop my hands to whip out my wallet. But it’s okay because I know in a few minutes I’ll have him exactly where I want him. Where I’ve always wanted him. All to myself. At my mercy. “You don’t have to. We’re here.”

  I pay the cab driver, and we make it up the three floors in half my usual time. The second we’re inside, he’s on me, panting like he’s run a marathon as he shoves me back against the door and presses his body against mine.

  Fuck, he feels fantastic. I want to let him have his way with me. Let him strip my clothes off and kiss me senseless. But not yet. Me first. And by that, I mean I’m going to make him come first, not vice versa.

  “Whoa there, ballet boy.” He’s strong from years of dancing, and it takes all my reserve to push him away. “I appreciate your enthusiasm. But that’s not how this is gonna go.”

  “How is it gonna go, then?”

  “Like a rhumba,” I say, speaking his language. The language of dance. “Slow and smooth and sensuous. Not some herky-jerky, quick-and-dirty hip-hop routine.”

  “What’s wrong with quick and dirty?” he grumbles.

  “Not a damn thing, in the right circumstances.”

  “And this isn’t the right circumstances?”

  “Hell, no,” I growl, looking up at him to meet his heated gaze. He’s got a couple of inches on me with that long, lean body. “Your intro to gay sex is not going to be a fast and furious fuck against my front door.”

  “Even if that’s what I want?”

  “It might be what you want. But it’s not what you need.”

  He lets out a frustrated howl that goes straight to my cock. “I so want to hate you right now.”

  “You won’t in a few minutes.”

  I take his hand and lead him into the living room. I’m hoping we’ll get to the bedroom eventually, but it’s too soon for that. Too presumptuous. My second-hand leather couch will do for now. It’s a decent compromise between my bed and the damn door.

  “Sit,” I instruct him, my voice coming out sharper than I expect. Damn. You learn something new every day. Who knew I could do bossy gay? I guess Chris brings out the dom in me.

  He lowers himself to the sofa, and I follow him down, sitting next to him and taking his head in my hands. For a long second we just sit there silently, staring at each other, our warm breath mingling in the small space between our lips.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Chris rasps. “Kiss me already.”

  I move in, and he tenses a little, like he’s bracing himself for another taste of my lips. But I fake him out, going for his neck instead of his mouth. His skin is a delicious combination of salty and sweet, like a chocolate-covered pretzel, and I wonder if his dick tastes as good. Or better.

  “Tease,” he murmurs as I drop hungry, open-mouthed kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.

  I peel off his jacket, unbutton his shirt and spread it open so my lips can continue their journey south, giving me a first look at his naked chest. Damn, those pecs. And his abs. Holy hell. Is that an eight-pack? I thought they only existed in Marvel movies. And porno films.

  I pull back, more than a little self-conscious of my own less-than-perfect body. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a total couch potato. I work out a few times a week. Try to eat right. But Chris is on another level. The guy doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. Anywhere. There’s no way I can live up to that.

  “Hey,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not backing out on me, are you?”

  “No. Not really. It’s just—” I break off, my face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Just what?” A frown mars his movie-star good looks. “Was it something I said? Or did? I admit, I’m a little out of practice. Plus, I’ve never actually done this before. You know, with a guy.”

  “No,” I insist too loudly. The idea that he thinks my hang-ups are his problem—that I’ve done something to make him feel that way—tears at my gut like a knife. A serrated knife with a rusty blade. I’m supposed to be the experienced one, the one putting him at ease, not the other way around.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and make a conscious effort to soften my tone. “It’s not you. It’s me. I know that sounds trite, but it’s true. You’re so goddamn beautiful. I can’t compete with all that.”

  “All what?”

  “That.” I wave a hand at his naked torso. “The sculpted pecs. The washboard abs. You’re a professional ballet dancer. I’m a piano player who spends his days—and nights—sitting on his ass at the keyboard. I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed when my clothes hit the floor.”

  “The only way you could disappoint me is if your clothes stayed on.” He tilts his head to one side, eyeing me with the piercing gaze of a master painter studying his favorite muse. “Remember the night we met?”

  “Huh?” The abrupt change of subject jars me. Now it’s my turn to be confused. I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

  “The night we met,” he repeats, removing his shirt and leaning back, strong, sinewy arms crossed behind his head. He probably figures the less clothes he’s wearing, the less likely I’ll be able to resist jumping his bones. Smart man. “Freshman year. At that epic musical theater club keg party.”

  “I’m pretty sure I noticed you before that,” I say, finding it hard to tear my gaze from his bare chest. His evil plan is clearly working. “At mass on Sundays.”

  I went every week. Not out of some great religious devotion, despite what my parents wanted to think. I went to ogle the cute seminarians. And Chris. Sinful, I know. Guaranteed it’s earned me a special place in hell.

  He shakes his head, and his lips curve into a youthful, mischievous grin that’s reminiscent of the boy I lusted after from my favorite pew in the back of St. Cecilia’s. “That doesn’t count. I’m talking about when we actually met. As in exchanged words. Had a conversation.”

  “The keg party.” It’s all coming back to me now. Truth is, it never left. If I close my eyes, I can almost see him back then, a little younger, a little lankier, a little more awkward in the way of an adolescent male just getting used to his developing body, skinny jeans and tight T-shirt practically painted onto his slender frame and a red Solo cup filled with whatever cheap beer was on tap clutched in one hand.

  But I don’t close my eyes for more than a few seconds because that means depriving myself of the sight of him now. Half naked. “Right. That crazy violinist wouldn’t leave you alone.”

  “Renee.” He rolls his eyes and grimaces.
“With the grabby hands.”

  “She was all over you,” I say on a laugh. “And a terrible violinist. To this day, I don’t understand how she ever got past the audition.”

  He sits up and puts both hands flat on my chest, his eyes laser beams, boring into mine. “I didn’t bring up that night so we could reminisce about Crazy Renee.”

  My breath hitches and I’m pretty sure he can feel my heart jumping around in my rib cage like it’s trying to escape. “Then why did you bring it up?”

  “Because I wanted you to kiss me,” he says, nervously toying with the top button of my shirt. “After you rescued me from Renee and we brought that bottle of Boone’s Farm we found in the fridge up to the roof of the dancers’ dorm. I was too scared to make the first move. But that didn’t stop me from hoping you would.”

  “I almost did,” I admit, a little stunned by his revelation. And by the way he’s slipping my button out of its hole. “But I didn’t want to take advantage of you when you were drunk. Then when I did finally kiss you—”

  “Years later,” he interrupts, his trembling fingers moving down to the next button.

  “You freaked out and ran back to your girlfriend.”

  Button number two pops free. “A lot had changed by then.”

  “Yeah.” His fingers graze the trail of hair that bisects my chest as they move lower, and my breath catches again. “You were dating Sonja.”

  “And you’d stuck me permanently in the friend zone. Or so I thought.”

  I let my head fall back against the couch. “We wasted so much time.”

  “Let’s not waste any more.” The last button gives way and he drops his hands. “Take off your shirt. I promise I won’t run away this time.”

  “Very funny.”

  “There’s nothing funny about this.” He palms the noticeable bulge in his pants.

  Holy mandingo. That’s got to be at least eight inches he’s packing. My body hums with anticipation as I whip off my shirt and toss it behind me, not even caring where it lands.

  Chris reaches for me, tentatively at first then a bit more forcefully, pulling me in. Then he’s kissing me and oh my God he’s good at this. I kiss him back, making soft, encouraging noises as I open up to him. His tongue darts inside and I suck on it greedily, loving the taste, the feel of him.

  Unlike both our prior encounters, we’re in this kiss together from the start. That alone makes it ten thousand times better than anything in my admittedly limited sexual experience.

  “Fuck.” The word comes out on a gasp as his hands explore my shoulders, my spine, the small of my back. I wrap my arms around him and yank him closer to me, bringing us bare chest to bare chest.

  The contact makes my dick do a little happy dance. Chris must feel it because he grinds against me like a stripper, rubbing his throbbing cock against mine. The friction has me seconds away from coming in my goddamn pants.

  “Someone’s impatient tonight,” I rasp. “Pretty bold for a first-timer.”

  His hands freeze on my ass. “Is that a problem?”

  A randy shiver races through me and another rush of blood floods my already engorged cock. “No. No problem. Be as bold as you like.”

  But don’t be surprised if I last all of two minutes—and that’s being generous—before I shoot my load.

  He stands suddenly, awkwardly, one hand hesitating then going to his fly. He’s trying so hard to be daring. Confident. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to. That I don’t want him to be or do anything that’s out of his comfort zone. But I get the feeling he’s got something he has to prove—to himself, not to me—so I sit back and wait it out as he adorably fumbles with his fly.

  After a few tries, he pops the button with shaky fingers and slowly slides the zipper down. Then he works a hand inside his pants and runs it over the navy blue cotton of his boxers, stroking his monster dick through the fabric.

  I lick my lips, almost involuntarily. “If you’re trying to kill me before we get started, you’re doing a great job.”

  “I don’t want to kill you.” He hooks his thumbs into his waistband and shoves his pants over his hips and down his legs. When they reach his ankles, he kicks them off, leaving him in only his formfitting boxer briefs.

  Damn. My mouth goes dry and my brain cells short circuit. He really is going to kill me. But at least I’ll die happy.

  “Then what do you want?” I ask. I need to know. And I need him to be specific. And certain. Once we do this, there’s no going back.

  “I—I want you naked.” He jerks himself through his boxers. Whether he’s aware of it or not, he’s putting on a show for me. My living room is his stage, and I’m his audience of one. “And I want to suck you off.”

  “Yes and no,” I answer, and his face falls, his disappointment almost palpable. But that’s okay. I know it won’t last for long.

  “What’s that mean?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’ll get naked. But no, you can’t suck me off. Not yet.” I stand, strip, and cross to him, sinking to my knees. My eyes are level with his cock, and I reach up to cup it, pushing his hand out of the way. “This is my apartment. You’re my guest tonight. And company comes first.”

  Chapter 4

  Chris

  Company comes first.

  Hands down the three hottest words I’ve ever heard. Even hotter because they’re from the mouth of the guy who’s fueled my gay sex fantasies since I allowed myself to have gay sex fantasies. And who’s kneeling in front of me, gloriously naked, freeing my swollen cock from my boxer briefs.

  Holy shit. He wasn’t kidding when he said he had magic fingers. They sure know their way around a guy’s dick. The way he strokes me is faster, firmer, rougher than a woman’s touch.

  I like it. No, that’s a lie. I fucking love it.

  His free hand travels up my thigh and over my hip, coming to rest against the eight-pack I work hard in the gym to maintain. “Man. You have zero body hair.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I grunt. “Minimalist costumes and muscle bears don’t mix well.”

  “You’re ripped, but you’re not jacked enough to be a muscle bear. You’re more of an otter. Or a jock.” Okay. Guess I still have a lot to learn about LGBTQ slang. But that will have to wait. Right now I’m having a hard time focusing on anything except his wandering fingers, teasing the area where my happy trail would be if I didn’t wax regularly.

  He moves in closer as he continues to jerk me off, and his soft, shallow breaths tickle my dick. “But it’s totally hot. All that smooth, shiny skin waiting to be explored.”

  His tongue comes out to lap up a bead of precum at the tip of my aching cock, and damn if that slippery little sucker isn’t as magic as his fingers. I inhale sharply, every fiber of my being vibrating with sexual energy and raw need.

  “Fuck. Do that again.”

  “You want my mouth?” he asks, sitting back on his haunches, which increases the distance between his lips and my dick.

  Bastard.

  “Fuck, yes,” I moan, not too proud to beg. “Please.”

  “I can’t resist when you ask nicely.”

  He wraps his hand around the base of my cock, his grip firm and sure, and those sinful lips part as he brings his mouth nearer, nearer, until it’s around my head, warm and wet. He licks one, two, three slow circles around the tip then sucks me in deeper, his tongue teasing the underside of my shaft.

  Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. I grit my teeth and concentrate on not shooting off like a goddamn cruise missile. I will not embarrass myself. I’ve waited too long for this for it to end in a matter of minutes.

  But David seems determined to prove me wrong. He swallows me whole, and I feel my cock hit the back of his throat. My knees buckle, and I groan in protest when he pulls off me.

  “Couch.” He points behind me. “Sit.”

  It’s a good thing it’s only a few steps away because I’m not sure my shaky legs will carry me much farther. I sink down onto one of the leather cushio
ns, and within seconds David’s between my thighs, pushing them apart so he can dive back in and devour me some more.

  I watch him through half-closed eyes and my hands drift downward to cup his head, his thick, silky hair sliding through my fingers. “Holy hell, dude. I think you’re the one who’s trying to kill me.”

  He raises his head and releases me with a loud pop. “Enjoying your inaugural blow job from a guy?”

  “I’m not sure enjoying is the right word.” My hips buck, telling him without words that I need his mouth on me again. I’ve never felt so out of control. And it’s fucking awesome. Control is overrated. A little submission every once in a while doesn’t make a man any less of a man, no matter if he’s gay, straight, or anything in between. “I might pass out if I don’t come soon.”

  He doesn’t answer, just ducks his head and takes me in again. My toes curl and my fingers grasp at his hair like it’s a lifeline as he wrecks me with his lips, teeth, and tongue. I don’t have another guy to compare him to, but I don’t need one to know that he is seriously, seriously good at this.

  I want like hell to make it last, but that’s so not gonna happen. Not with the way my cock is pulsing and my heart is pounding. Then there are the sounds David is making. Muffled groans, wet slurps, and rhythmic grunts that take me to the edge of the cliff, mere millimeters from tumbling into oblivion.

  “Gotta come,” I warn him. “Watch out.”

  But instead of pulling back so I can blow my load in his hand or on his chest, he doubles down, groaning louder and sucking me all the way down to the root, his chin bumping my balls. My hips twitch and my back arches and I pour myself into him.

  He takes every last drop, and when I’m done my whole body goes slack and my head flops back against the couch, eyes closed. I’m shaking and spent and thoroughly satisfied, unable to do anything but sit there like a limp noodle and marinate in the memory of how my college crush just gave me the best blow job of my life.

  But David’s still ready and raring to go. I hear him get up from the floor and feel the couch cushion next to me sink with his weight. Then he’s taking my hand, putting it on what feels like—holy crap, is that his dick?