I cringed, anticipating bemused rejection, but instead his fingers brushed my cheek—the touch as hesitant and as fleeting as his confidences had been. I turned my face into his palm and kissed it, embarrassment drowned in a rush of pleasure.
“We shouldn’t,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re doing—”
“Oi.” I nipped his thumb. “I think you’ll find I do.”
He made a shaky sound, a sigh or a laugh or a little bit of both. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
“Then let me. Please.”
“Arden, I—”
“Please.”
Silence. And I was trembling with urgency. Whatever I’d apparently done to him, I’d managed to wind myself up into a right state. I couldn’t remember ever being so aroused on so little.
Except it wasn’t little, not really.
It was him, and kneeling for him, and begging him, and knowing he wanted me too. And it was better than any everyday fucking or sucking I’d ever done.
I couldn’t tell which of us he shocked more when he gave this—God—this groan, this deep, lovely, slightly helpless groan. And his hands moved to undo the button of his trousers. The scrape of the zip sounded so ridiculously loud that I half expected the balcony doors to fly open and the guests to come pouring out in fear of the machine gun.
But, no, it was just him and me and…and this.
Waiting with the cold seeping into my already-aching knees. Watching the faint trembling in his fingers as he pushed down…oh my…I was glad for the semidarkness because otherwise I’d probably have been completely overwhelmed by the sheer classiness of his silk modal boxer briefs. I only got a glimpse, but the way they clung to him—sleek and gorgeous and far too explicit—I would have given anything to be the one peeling them off him. Revealing him. Worshipping him. His flanks beneath my hands, tight with anticipation and flush with heat, the skin ivory smooth.
Although in all honesty, and greedy fantasies aside, what was happening now was almost on the brink of being too much. It was like some weird semi-pornographic fairy tale. A spell I was going to break at any moment when he saw my finery was nothing but ashes and my carriage a pumpkin. Not that this was the sort of thing that happened in the Brothers Grimm. Even taking into account all the Oh no, real fairy tales are dark, man, dark bullshit.
And then I saw his cock and the nervous babbling in my brain snapped off as if he’d hit a switch.
Just.
Um.
Wow.
It looked like marble in the moonlight and it was beautiful, sculpted almost, a cock that Rodin would have dreamed up. I’d seen my fair share of knob in my life—I’m sure some would say more than my fair share—but this was cream of the crop. Platonic ideal. Sizeable and proportional and tantalizing with a graceful curve to it. It made my stomach knot with yearning, empty places waking up inside me, aching for him to fill them and take possession of me.
I leaned forward and licked all the way up the underside of the shaft.
He tasted good. Heat and salt and skin. And, at the top like a prize, a glistening drop of pure desire. It zinged on my tongue. For me.
Caspian gasped. Such a rough sound, a little bit grudging, as though he’d tried to keep it trapped in his throat.
I pressed in closer, wanting more—more of his sounds, more of his pleasure, more of everything—and slid my hands up his thighs. The muscles drew tight under my palms. He was so unexpectedly responsive, this cold man, so very full of hidden fires.
But then he seized my wrists again—one in each hand, this time—and pulled me away. At first I thought he intended to stop me (and, of course, I would have stopped) but he just trapped me there, kneeling at his feet with my arms outstretched in this pose of peculiar surrender—a little bit crucified, a little bit “don’t shoot me.”
I’d been pretty much making a beeline for his cock, but I felt odd without my hands. Exposed. Also—as much as I hated to admit it—I was a trifle lazy in the gamahuching department. Well, maybe not lazy, because I was certainly enthusiastic about it, but I usually cheated a bit. The ol’ hand round the base technique.
And I know it made me something of a failgay but I was scared of deep throating. Scared in a good way in principle, but in practice…well, it didn’t tend to quite work out. There’d be moments of rough hands and breathlessness that would flush me with hectic heat—leaving me feeling helpless, feeling thrillingly used. But then all that promise of something dark and sweet and dirty would be lost in worrying I was about to throw up on some guy’s dick. And, just like when I was a teenager, going on fairground rides that scared me to stop my mates calling me a sissy, I’d be left feeling sick and hurt, asking myself, Why are you doing this? What are you getting out of it? What are you supposed to get out of it?
But then I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted Caspian Hart.
And I trusted him. As he had trusted me.
I let him keep my hands, fingers curling as I yielded to his grip. And, with less finesse than I might have hoped, I opened my mouth over the head of his cock, pulling it clumsily inside like a stick of Blackpool rock.
Only, y’know, thicker and harder and hotter and oh God. Oh God.
Caspian Hart’s cock. In me. Well, about half in me. Enough to flood me with the taste of him: salty, masculine, and clean. So exciting, the intimacy of that, along with the heat of palms, pressing into me like shackles. I angled myself, trying to take more of him, feeling him stretch my lips and rub against the interior spaces of my mouth. He wasn’t pushing, but it wasn’t hard—um, difficult—to imagine what it would be like if…when…he did. How powerless I would be. At his feet, with my hands in his, my body given over to his will and the violence of his passion.
Surrendering to it. And inciting it.
The thought made me fluttery. Sensation and expectation and anticipation knotting into a quiver-inducing tangle. Making me moan in this needy, greedy, cock-muffled way.
His fingers tightened in response. It hurt, but I’d never minded a little pain, if it was done right. And, just now, it was so right, melding with the aches in my knees and my jaw and—frankly—my dick until I was music. Everything I felt, pain and pleasure and lust and submission, conducted by him.
I was starting to wish I’d been less wussy with my other partners. Because I wanted to make him feel right back. Come apart because of me and for me. Safe with me.
Maybe if I did a lot of tongue and lip work it would be enough.
I got to it. With gusto.
Whatever my concerns about letting relative strangers block off my airway, I’d always enjoyed giving head. But with him, with Caspian Hart, it was…God. I felt like a Cosmo guide to oral sex: worshipping my (well…a) man.
With a cock like that, it would have been impossible not to worship. It was practically fashioned for it. And worship I did. In long, deep pulls, my lips locked as tight around him as his hands on me, dragging up and down that spit-slick, velvety flesh. I lapped up the fluid that gathered at the head and tongued at the underside, where I could taste the heat and the pulsing of the veins.
I pulled out every trick I knew to please him. His every bitten-back sound made my heart jump, my pulse fly, my cock drip. And, when I dared, I squinted up through the hazy moonlight so I could watch him. Caspian Hart, head thrown back, every muscle taut, eyes closed, mouth open, sweat gleaming on his brow, a little bit unraveled, a little bit mine.
More gorgeous than ever.
I was starting to hurt for real now—my knees especially—but I would have sucked him until my jaw fell off if he’d wanted. It was just unbelievably good to be able to do this to him. To feel the shudders running through him, hear his ragged breath, his soft groans. To feel exposed and controlled and strong at the same time.
But then he released my wrists and I’d grown so accustomed to him holding them, and to the pull in my shoulders, that it felt like loss. Left me more unbalanced than when he’d first taken them and unexpectedly vulnerable, when surely it should have been the other way around. I nearly reached for him again, but then I remembered how he’d reacted when I’d touched him before. Instead, I pressed my palms to my thighs and kept them there.
It probably looked a bit odd—a supplicant engaged at profane prayer—but he muttered something. I was too dazed, really, to make sense of the words, but I remembered them later. Remembered them, obsessed over them, didn’t quite believe them.
What he said, or what I thought he said was, God you’re stunning.
His fingers curled into my hair, sending a delicious shiver through my skull, into the nape of my neck and down my spine.
“Will you trust me?” he whispered.
Hard to answer with my mouth full, and I would have thought my actions implied pretty heavily that I did, but I stilled, nodded, and made an undignified attempt at a yes.
We must have made a pretty ludicrous tableaux, but the way he was looking at me, his eyes all light and shadow and ferocity, I didn’t care.
“Flatten your tongue, stretch out your neck.”
An anxious noise leaked from around his cock. But I did what he told me. Of course I did. His soft commands were like fingers inside me: a tender assault on some hidden pleasure center. I could probably have come from them alone.
He was already wet, from him and me, and I was already pliant with yielding. I had expected him to be rough with me, forceful, now that I’d ceded my last threads of control. But he was annihilatingly gentle, his cock gliding into my throat with a kind of smooth inevitability that my body almost didn’t resist.
Almost. I still gagged. Still got teary-eyed and snotty. Still got that instinctive “I can’t breathe” flood of panic that made you somehow forget you had a functional nose. But he was pulling out before it hurt, before I got really scared, his hands soothing in my hair, as he gave me time to gasp and splutter. When he pushed back in, the panic was still there, but it felt different, hot and bright and almost sweet, far closer to adrenaline than fear.
My cock, which had briefly surrendered to anxiety, perked up like a fox hound hearing the view halloo. Flipping from “I’m not sure about this” to “ready to explode” in about two seconds flat. Especially when Caspian started talking, almost helplessly, telling me in this passion-wrecked voice how good I was, how beautiful and perfect, which weren’t the sort of things people usually said to me.
The weirdest thing was that, right then, breathless and wet-eyed, I…believed him. I felt cherished. By his touch. By his words. By the care he took as he claimed me. I would have welcomed harshness too; I would have welcomed anything that brought him pleasure, but it didn’t seem like he needed anything except my surrender.
Which I gave too. Waiting at his feet for him to use me however he chose.
And I loved it. Soared on it. Peaceful and free and proud and so fucking horny I would have begged for more if I’d been able to do anything except choke and moan.
“Oh God, Arden, Arden.” He sounded shocked almost, and wild. He gripped my hair, sharp pain layering over blunt, all of it feeding into the pleasure until I couldn’t tell them apart anymore. Couldn’t remember they had ever been different.
All it took was one hard thrust. His cock shoving into me like it was meant to be there. My name on his lips as he did it. The heat of his climax in my throat.
And I came all over myself, practically untouched but thoroughly taken.
Entirely his.
He pulled out quickly, his fingers snagging in my curls, hurting me for the first time carelessly.
I winced, shocked by how cold I suddenly felt, and how deeply shaken.
God.
I could have been the poster boy for the dangers of the homosexual lifestyle. I’d just let a stranger fuck my face. Come in my mouth. On a balcony. During what was probably an important speech about education and…stuff.
And I’d loved it.
Would go again.
Although the silence was getting to me now. And I would have really liked it if he’d…touched me. Yes, it wasn’t exactly a prime cuddling location, but he could have stroked my cheek again. Helped me up. Kissed me even.
Instead, he was just staring down at me. Face locked up tight. Eyes as empty as glass. “Arden, I…” He drew in a sharp breath. “Forgive me.”
And then he zipped up his trousers and left.
Left me kneeling on the ground in the moonlight.
Without even a glass slipper to show for it.