by Cara McKenna
“It’s okay,” John said. He knew that this was a test. That if he wanted to play with Meyer, he had to follow the rules, prove himself up to the challenge. And he did want that. He took a deep breath and told him, “Suck me.”
Meyer smiled, looking evil and handsome and thrilling beyond reason. “Not even a please,” he teased. “I knew you had it in you.” And with that he pulled away, moving down the bed on his hands and knees but never taking his eyes off John’s.
He sat on his heels, waiting, and John lay back.
Meyer knelt between his legs, thumbs rubbing the creases where his hips met his thighs, still smiling. “You have no fucking idea how much I’ve missed this.”
“G-good.” It came out ridiculous and timid, sounding like a question.
“Did Suzy suck you off?” Meyer asked, hand closing around John once more and fogging his brain.
“No,” he huffed, eyes squeezing shut.
“That’s a shame,” Meyer said lightly. “She’s good.”
A sultry “Why, thank you” sounded from John’s side.
“But nobody sucks cock like a man,” Meyer went on. “And no man sucks cock better than one who’s gone without it a year.”
Fuck, was all John could think. It was all so much, so fast, so much further than he’d ever imagined he’d go with a man. But here it was, offered up on a platter by one who’d occupied John’s most exhilarating and scary daydreams, the sexiest man he’d ever seen or met or touched . . . He wants me. Crazy. And way too miraculous to pass up.
“Do it,” he whispered, and shivered inside his fevered skin.
No more teasing—Meyer leaned in close, and after one, two, three slow strokes of his hand, he finally closed his lips around John.
“Oh.” The heat alone was enough to leave him panting. He felt Meyer’s tongue circle his crown, a sensation he’d never experienced before now, not even from a woman. It was exquisite. “F-fuck.”
A hum warmed his flesh—a stifled little laugh. Meyer took him deeper, deeper, slow and steady until John felt his head glance his palate or throat, though Meyer didn’t stop. He kept spoiling John with those deep draws, seeming to grow hungrier with every pass. One hand moved to cup John’s balls, the other clamped tight to his hip. John’s own hand gripped the pillow under his head, fisting it so hard his fingertips prickled.
Suzy spoke, her voice soft and grounding. “I’ve always wondered how it must feel. Having a dick, and getting sucked.” She said it to incite Meyer, John imagined, though the words roused him as well. “Powerful,” she added, speculating.
“I’ve wondered myself,” John said, the words all but lost in a gasp.
“And how is it?”
“Amazing.” The absolute only word for it.
Meyer broke away with a grunt, that perfect face contorted with some vicious breed of pleasure. “Hold my head. My hair.” He lowered back down, enclosing John in that greedy heat.
He cupped Meyer’s head, gripping his hair gently. But the moan that little taste of roughness drew made John bolder, and so he fisted Meyer’s hair, shocked when a flash of something unmistakable shot through his body—power. Power was something John had never felt when it came to his sexuality. Even when he’d issued orders to Suzy and Meyer, he’d not felt a measure of this. And Christ, it was delicious.
At first he merely followed the bobbing of Meyer’s head with his hands, but that zap of power changed the sensations, deepened and sharpened them, making him crave that hit of aggression. He wanted more and he knew Meyer wanted the same, so he gave the both of them what they were after, urging the motions, drawing Meyer’s mouth down and back, down and back. Again, he heard moaning, only this time it wasn’t Meyer’s. It was his own.
He let it flow, lost in the intensity, both physical and psychological. He let them both hear what this was doing to him, too far gone for inhibition or fear.
He spoke without thought. “That feels good. So good.”
Meyer replied with his mouth—not with words, but with hunger, speed, suction. Rougher, quicker, tighter. Deeper, until John’s fingers weren’t dictating, but merely trembling in Meyer’s hair, riding his movements. He wouldn’t last much longer, and the closer he edged, the crisper a question loomed in his mind. What would happen when he . . . ?
He was too far gone to articulate it, but as his pants and grunts grew more frantic and the pleasure mounted to something nearly frightening, the changes weren’t lost on Meyer.
He freed his mouth, hand still working John, quick and tight. “You close?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Where do you want to come?”
“Oh.” His eyes shut. His own question had been answered with another, and he didn’t have the wildest clue what to say.
“You know,” Meyer said, sounding very near, even as his breath warmed John’s crown. “Tell me.”
All he could do was pant.
“My mouth? My hands? My chest, throat, face?”
A stark and startling image flashed across John’s mind at that final word. That perfect face, streaked obscene white . . . No, too much. Much too much.
“Your mouth,” John said. Begged, more like, to judge by the strain in every muscle.
“Hold my head,” Meyer said again. “Make it mean and I’ll take whatever you’ve got for me.” He brought his mouth back down, swallowing John whole.
John did as he was told, fisting Meyer’s hair more roughly than before. Aggression collided with the lust and he knew he was a goner. It happened in a hot rush, doubling John over so he sat up, still holding Meyer’s head as the first spasm struck. He heard his own guttural moan and the echo of Meyer’s as pleasure rushed and peaked, chased by exquisite, wringing relief. His moans became panting, then a soft, droning hum, wholly animal.
He was spent, utterly. He let Meyer’s hair go, finding his hands sweaty, fingers shaky. Meyer sat up, smiling in his beguiling and untrustworthy way: the cat who got the canary.
As the rush of relief ebbed, uncertainty clamored in alongside its constant companion, awkwardness. John tugged his underwear up, hiding his wilting cock. He glanced at Suzy, expecting to find a smile on her face as well, but he was wrong. She looked hazy, as hazy as John felt. Had she come again? It looked like it.
She curled a finger at him, finally smiling, and as John came close she freed the covers from under the pillows and climbed beneath, welcoming him to do the same. She pulled him close and kissed him, slow and savoring. He felt the mattress shift and could hear the sounds of Meyer dressing behind him.
Suzy pulled away and spoke to Meyer. “You going?”
John kept his attention on Suzy as Meyer said, “I am. This has been precisely perfect; if I linger too long I can only take away from that.”
“Suit yourself,” she said, not a jot of annoyance or confusion tarnishing the easy, spent tone of her voice.
“John, it was a pleasure.”
Now he had to turn. When he did, it wasn’t a pointed look of cocky triumph as he expected, but rather a matter-of-fact dip of Meyer’s head and a small smile. So gentlemanly it felt markedly unwholesome. But also perfect.
“Yes,” John said. “It was. Thank you.”
Meyer stooped to tie his shoes. Goodness, he dressed fast. John supposed he must be practiced at it.
“Good night, you two. Suze, see you tomorrow night. John, see you in my filthy imagination.”
“Oh. Um, good.”
“Watch the video.”
“I will.”
And with that promise tendered, Meyer headed for the door, grabbing his umbrella and disappearing without a word.
Suzy turned back to John as the door shut, smiled sweetly, and kissed his nose.
He responded as naturally as he could, though Meyer’s exit had left him tense and sobered, for no good reason.
“You okay?” she asked, his kissing surely stiff and uncertain.
“Yes, yes. That was . . . That was more than I’d planned on, if not more than I might have expected, knowing he was the one ring-leading, as it were . . . He was, wasn’t he? I wasn’t imagining that?”
She laughed, eyes crinkling. “No, you weren’t. That’s Meyer, precisely. The ringleader.”
“It’s more than I’d imagined, let’s say that. But . . . But not more than I’d fantasized about.” He blushed to hear the truth spoken by his own lips. “More than I’d prepared for, though. Was . . . You liked watching, didn’t you?”
“You have no idea how much.”
“Had you imagined that? Us doing that?”
“A little, yeah.” Her smile was guilty. And adorable. “I know Meyer wanted it.”
“He wants more than just that.”
“Yes, he certainly does. But do what he said—watch the video. It’s totally up to you. Watch it and ask yourself if that’s an experience you want to have, and if you’re ready for it.”
“Does anyone really feel ready for that sort of thing, the first time?”
“Fair enough. Listen to your body, then.”
“I’ll try. It’s definitely easier approaching the entire scenario that way, though—him wanting me to . . . you know. Not the other way around.”
“Absolutely. It’s intense, being penetrated. I say that as a woman, with the default being that we’re expected to be the ones getting fucked. For a man who’s never been in that position, with all the stigma that comes with it, I can’t imagine. Luckily Meyer lives for stigma.”
John laughed, relaxing.
“He’s not going to ask you to reciprocate, either. I know that much. He wants to get fucked, to put a fine point on it. He misses it, and I think he’s super turned on, imagining turning someone as gentlemanly as you into a grunting, rutting animal.”
John flushed, mostly embarrassed, but undeniably a little turned on, as well. “If it happens, I just hope I’m not completely useless.”
“He’ll direct you, no doubt. But seriously, watch the video. I’ve watched it myself, several times, just for the pleasure of it. When Meyer’s sexual, he doesn’t hold anything back, and it’s crazy-intoxicating, seeing him in that video. His face, and the things he says, the way his voice gets . . . It flashes me right back to how powerful it makes me feel when we do scenes like that. It’s like a drug, knowing I can take a man like him, so self-assured and full of himself, and reduce him to a pleading wreck.”
John was turned on just listening to her talk about it.
“I’ll watch it,” he promised again.
Though who could say if he was ready for it?
Chapter Eighteen
“Suzy?”
She blinked, bleary, discovered tan walls all around, snow-white pillowcases, and an extremely handsome man standing at the bedside. “Hi.”
“Good morning.” John was dressed in the pajama pants and tee he’d changed into last night when they’d taken turns brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. His hair was wet and combed, but he didn’t seem to have shaved. It was a good look for him.
“What time is it?” Suzy looked to the clock, answering her own question. “Nine fifty-two, Jesus. Am I holding you up?”
“Not at all. But I do need to check out by eleven, so I wanted to make sure you had a chance to shower, if you wanted to.”
“That’s a good idea.” She’d come prepared last night, armed with toiletries and makeup and Prozac. Unlike John, she’d slept naked, enjoying the feel of her bare body hugged to his, like some sort of wanton barnacle.
“You have time for breakfast before your train back home?” she asked, tossing the covers aside.
He swallowed visibly, seeming to struggle to maintain eye contact as she stood. “Absolutely. It’s not until two fifteen.”
“Perfect. We can toss your luggage in my car and fill the time together, if you want.”
His lips twitched, like he was trying to be cool and hide a smile. “I do. Very much.”
Suzy didn’t bother hiding her own smile. “Well, good. Guess I better go get cleaned up.”
“Be my guest.”
When he finally cracked, she savored the way his gaze jumped down and up her body, just before she leaned up to peck him on the lips. She hoped he watched every step it took to move her from the bed to the bathroom.
Be my guest. She had been. She’d enjoyed every moment on and in that big, luxurious bed, every smooth cotton thread of his sheets, every bite of dinner. Every image that was now seared into her memory, of him and Meyer together. She indulged those thoughts as she showered—but not too much. Just enough to leave her worked up and flushed from more than the hot water.
She toweled off, moisturized, put on a little makeup and brushed her hair and teeth, popped her pill.
John was dressed when she emerged with a towel wrapped around her. He looked handsome and put together as ever in gray pants and another of those posh thermals, this one deep currant red.
I’ll have to fix that.
A peek at the clock told her it was ten twenty. Plenty of time.
“You’re not starving to death, are you?” she asked.
“No, I’m all right. All I require before noon is caffeine, and I came prepared.” He turned to the desk and lifted a mug, tea-bag tag dangling.
“Smart. But put that down a sec.”
He did, turning to face her. Again, his eyes dipped down and back up, seeming to linger at her collarbone or what passed for her cleavage.
“This is a very nice shirt,” she informed him, running her fingers under the hem at his hips.
“Thank you.”
“Can I borrow it a minute?”
He smiled, submitting to her game. He peeled it away, revealing a white undershirt. He held out the thermal and Suzy took it.
“I need your T-shirt, too. I’m going to construct a rope ladder so we can escape without paying the bill.”
He pulled off his tee as well. “They have my card on file.”
“No they don’t. And this isn’t enough fabric. Give me your pants.”
He laughed, undid his belt and dropped his slacks. He didn’t bother handing them to her, just kicked them to the side. “Anything else?”
Suzy dropped her towel, and his shirts beside it. She pretended to make an inventory of it all. “So close. If only we had two extra square feet, I think we could jump to the safety of the shrubs.”
He blushed just a little, smirking, and pushed his shorts to the floor. “I suppose the bed sheets wouldn’t have done.”
“No, they’re not load-bearing.”
“Of course not.”
“Plus we need them.” She took his hand, tugged, but he didn’t budge.
“Hang on.” He went to the door, slipped the DO NOT DISTURB sign onto the outer knob, and flipped the security bolt.
“Do we have time?” he asked, returning and accepting her hand.
“I don’t know.” She led him to the bed. “What would you like to do?”
They climbed onto the rumpled sheets and sat facing each other.
“Everything,” he said plainly.
“We’ve done everything but. Do you want to . . . ?”
He nodded. “I would.”
“Got another condom?”
He left the bed and returned with one, setting it on the side table along with his glasses.
John wasn’t as shy this morning, and she couldn’t imagine how he would be, after everything that had gone down last night. He leaned in and kissed her, and in no time he was above her, braced on his elbows, and she hugged her thighs to his hips. His cock was already half-hard, stiffening with each stroke their tongues traded, growing warm and insistent against her mound.
She was pa
nting when she broke their mouths apart to say, “Last night was amazing.”
“It was. And I have you to thank for it.”
“We all have each other to thank.” Each of them had made that real, each had brought something essential. Meyer had brought the filth and the momentum, John the newness and the taboo of his innocence, the heat of his eyes. Suzy imagined she’d made it safe for him, bringing the trust.
“I’m probably going to be lousy at this,” John said.
“I don’t care how it is. How quick or awkward or clumsy or any other thing. I only care that it’s you and me.”
He huffed a tiny breath through his nose, smiling, and she could see him relax in the way his shoulders softened and his lips curled in a soft smile.
“That was so much more useful than blind reassurance,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Go ahead and be lousy at it. Who’s good at anything the first time they try it, right? Well, nearly the first time.”
“For all intents and purposes.”
“I don’t care if you’re any good, John. I only care about helping you figure it out.” With that, she drew him back down and into kissing, deep and sweet and dirty. Arousal snaked through her body, settling low, warm, impatient. She was wet already; John could surely feel it when the base of his cock brushed her lips.
“I like when you say my name,” he whispered. “Just now, I mean. Anytime, whether we’re in bed or not.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded, nose brushing her temple. “I like a lot of things about you. Too many to count.”
Her entire body smiled. “Like what?”
“Perhaps more than anything, that you make sex seem fun. And not scary. I always thought of it like dancing—I’m terrible at dancing. I thought it was just something I’d never know how to do, and if you don’t know how to do it, you just look like an ass and your date feels cheated. But you make it seem like . . . Gosh, I don’t even know. Like finger painting or something. That’s a lame simile, but something messy and fun and not to be taken too seriously.”
“Like finger painting where you get to orgasm at the end.”
