There are moments in life when you don’t want to open your eyes.

I, for example, am not a fan of roller coasters. And yet I was also not a fan of getting called a pussy by some of the guys we went to high school with…while we still went to high school at any rate. They had plenty of opportunities to call me homophobic and misogynistic slurs, and boy, did they take them. I wasn’t going to give them any more if I could help it, so I would get on the fricking coasters, do my damnedest to sit next to Teague because I knew he wouldn’t be a jerk about the fact that I’d be shutting my eyes tight and white-knuckling whatever I could get my hands on, which was sometimes him. He wouldn’t tell anyone about the high-pitched shrieks I’d sometimes let out as we plummeted down a steep run of track or went upside down.

At the moment, I am in a huge and ridiculously comfortable bed, and yet I’m having that same feeling of terror, like this is as high as I’m going to get and, when I open my eyes, I might tip over the edge and get that nauseating sense of weightlessness because it’s time to hit bottom, real fast.

But when I finally force one of my lids up, I’m not falling off a cliff. And I apparently didn’t hallucinate everything that happened last night, because I’m in Teague’s bed and he’s lying next to me on his side, his gaze trained on my face.

My stomach does fall a bit because he looks anxious and unsure. He’s here, though, which I think says something important. If he were with someone else, this would be the point in the program when he’d sneak out of bed and call me for a ride home. Obviously that’s not going to work in this case, but he could’ve gotten up and gone downstairs or someplace else far away from me in his enormous house. He didn’t. He’s still here, with me.

“Are you sorry? About last night?” he asks. “If you regret it, it’s okay. You can get up and I’ll go back to bed, and when I see you at Benji’s tomorrow, it’ll be like nothing happened. Really. I’m super good at not being awkward with people I’ve hooked up with.”

He’s adorable. And even though he’s trying to act cool, he’s so not. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be nervous about one of the people he’s gone out with or fucked or whatever he’s done with them, but he is now. I don’t want him to be nervous—I am so not sorry and I’ll tell him so—but it does make me feel like I’m special, exceptional.

I scoot over in the bed. We’re both still wearing T-shirts and our shorts and we’ve definitely slept in the same bed together before like this, but this feels different, way different. When I’m close enough, I reach out a hand and push some of his hair off his forehead. There’s a divot in his skull just beyond his hairline that I know is from when his older brother threw a rock at his head and struck gold. Declan had gotten grounded for months for that. I run a finger over it tenderly. How many of his lovers know that’s there? Probably not many, if any. But I do.

From his hair, I trace the edge of his sideburns and around his earlobe, to the Hollywood-square of his jaw, over the sandpaper of the overnight scruff on his chin, and to his lips that I skim over with my thumb. They’re soft and full, and the blood in my body heads to my dick because I kissed this man. Kind of a lot, and we didn’t do much else. Some hands on relatively innocent places, and a little frotting, but altogether it was very… I can’t say sweet because it ranks up there with the dirtiest shit I’ve ever done, but technically it was PG-13.

“I’m not sorry. At all. Are you?”

He closes his eyes and lets out a huff of relief through his nose. I can feel the warm puff of air on my thumb that’s still sweeping over his lips. I’m about to withdraw so he can answer, but before I do, his tongue darts out of his mouth and licks the pad of my thumb. If that isn’t confirming that he is not sorry, he is doing it wrong. Super, duper wrong. Wronger still when he sucks the tip. God, he’s terrible at this. And by terrible, I mean wickedly awesome, because I am getting ideas. Like capital-I ideas.

Given how overwhelmed he seemed last night, they probably aren’t ideas he wants me to be having. No, that’s not true. He wouldn’t be upset at me having the ideas, but the insisting that we act on them, which I wouldn’t do.

I wasn’t lying when I said we could take things slow. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. And Teague seems like he’s got enough on his plate trying to figure this shit out without someone insisting on rounding the bases before he’s even ready to leave the dugout.

Finally he lets my thumb go with a slight pop. His eyes are glassy, and I’m maybe panting a little bit.

“I am not at all sorry. I might need some more time to process it, but I really liked everything we did and I really want to do more of it. With you.”

My mouth has gone dry, because I would very much like that as well. If I had any game before—and I don’t think I did, really—it’s left the building. Which means I can barely choke out an “okay.”

It makes Teague smile, a shy and almost bewildered smile, like he’s wondering how he got so lucky.

“Do you have to go now or can you stay for a bit?”

I don’t even check the clock or the calendar on my phone. If I have anything, which I don’t think I do, it can wait. “I can stay.”

All right, then. He can stay, he wants to stay, and I… How do people get anything done with all this wanting to have sex? I mean, I can’t believe that everyone thinks about it as much as I have been lately, but maybe they do? It’s a wonder we don’t all starve to death, sitting around thinking about banging, or better yet, actually getting some action. Which is honest-to-god all I can think of right now. Yeah, I’m pretending that I can think about other, practical things—like does Christian have to go home for something or can he stay here with me so I can explore him more?

I want to know every inch of him. Literally, every single inch. I close the small gap that’s in between us, and our knees knock together. Even that boney, awkward, hairy collision makes my pulse skip. I want… I don’t know, really, I just want.

And selfishly, I want to be able to take on my own time. It’s not that I don’t care about Christian enjoying himself, because I do, very much. But there’s only so much a guy can hold in his head, even when it’s an enormous blockhead like mine, and keeping myself under control while experiencing all of this for basically the first time is eating up most of my brain.

I want to ask him for something, but I don’t know how he’ll feel about it. I suppose I won’t ever know if I don’t ask him, and I trust him to be honest with me.

“Hey, Christian?”

“Yeah?” His dark brows go up slightly, and the corners of his mouth follow. It gives the impression that he’s amused that I’m addressing him by name even though there’s no one else here I could possibly be speaking to. Because I’m totally not trying to buy time or anything, nope…

“I wanted to ask you something, and I need you to say no if it’s not okay with you. Promise?”

“Yeah,” he says lazily, as if that’s not even a possibility. But he has no idea what I’m going to ask. Maybe it’ll freak him the fuck out and he’ll suddenly remember he has some bathtub grout that’s overdue for cleaning and has to get out of here right now.

“Would you…would you lie there? So I can touch you? Do stuff to you?”

It sounds serial-killer creepy when I say it like that, and my throat starts to swell with embarrassment because, ew, gross. Could I be any worse at this? It’s a good thing this happened with Christian and not some rando who has no basis for trusting me at all, whereas Christian at least has a good eighteen years of me not being a total shithead to draw on.

He blinks but doesn’t say no. “How do you mean?”

How to explain this without sounding even pervier?

“It’s not that I want you to be helpless. Not even in a kinky, consensual way.” Or do I? Shit, man. I’ve never thought of myself as kinky, but who knows what the hell else I’m going to discover about myself? But for the moment, that’s not what this is about. “I want to be able to touch you and kiss you and explore you without…without also taking into account what you might do. It surprised me sometimes last night. You would touch me, and I loved it, but I… It was like being struck by lightning. Or like when Nicky would rub his feet on the carpet in winter and then come up behind me to give me the shock of my life. I want… I’d like a little more control, please. For now.”

“I wish you would’ve said something last night if I scared you. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t scare me exactly. It was more like, ‘whoa, what the hell was that?’ But not in a bad way. I would’ve told you to stop. I did tell you to stop.”

He nods, his bangs that are cut too long doing that flop-over-his-eye thing that makes him look mysterious and not as though he forgot to get a haircut like I would.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” My echo makes me sound stupid. But he smiles.

“Yeah, okay. If that’s what you want, if that’s what you need, we can give it a try.”

“It’s not going to be too much for you? I mean, look, I know I’m huge and that can scare people. I don’t want to scare you, ever.”

“Are you going to stop if I say stop?”

“Of course.”

“Then what’s there to be afraid of?”

I can tell he doesn’t get it, not totally, but he’s also going to give this to me because he wants me to be comfortable. Wants me to be happy. Trusts me. And all that stuff makes a warm gooey ball of liking Christian a whole goddamn lot alongside the burning fire of wanting to jump his bones. Yeah, it’s a problem.

A problem I will think about later, because right now I have a man to relish.

I tug the covers off and look at him.

He’s got on these tiny black mesh shorts, and I bet if I turned him over, they would not entirely contain his butt cheeks. Until recently, I might’ve laughed at anyone possibly wearing such things, but now I get it. I totally get it. They don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, but what they do leave is driving me absolutely fucking crazy. I want to strip them off of him yesterday, but that would probably fry my brain. And I think I’m going to need that.

Instead, I force myself to look farther up his body to the way his shirt leaves the barest slice of his stomach visible. That, there—that is where I have to start.

I lever up to my knees and then hover over him, hoping he doesn’t feel threatened in any way. So I let my head dip, using those muscles I earn doing all those push-ups and pull-ups and chest presses. This is a much better use of them than anything else I’ve done for sure. Being able to hold myself like this lets me brush my nose along the sliver of skin that’s bared, enough for me to lay my lips on, and the kiss I press to that thin strip of skin makes Christian buck and gasp.

Shit. “Are you okay?”

He laughs, drapes a hand over his face. “Uh, yeah, I wasn’t quite anticipating that. You’re going for the big guns. I figured you’d start out with something more innocuous. Like my arm or something. Not…not there.”

“I could’ve started bigger,” I point out and mist a hot breath over where his dick is contained by the stretchy material of his briefs. Yeah, that makes him squirm.

“I probably would’ve jumped out of my skin. I maybe see what you’re talking about, the shock of it.”

It’s hard to believe he’s having the same reaction to me as I did to him, but maybe he is? His fingers are clutching the sheets like that might be true.

I’d like more of the skin that his T-shirt is keeping from me, so I push up the hem to bare more of his abdomen. He’s thin, with his skin clinging to his muscles and bones and without a ton of hair. A sparse patch starts a little above his shorts and widens on the way down. I look at his chest, and it’s smooth. Is he always like this? Putting a hand to his abs, I stroke up and trace his pecs. He shudders, or maybe gets a chill because the quake of his muscles doesn’t last long.

“I, uh, waxed before the shoot.”

That would explain it. I don’t know what it is about the plane of skin and wiry muscle, but I want to touch it, tongue it all over. And since I’ve been given permission, I do. Also out of curiosity, I make a broad lick over one of his nipples. He sucks air through his teeth, and the tiny nub gathers under my touch. Enough that I can suck, put my teeth into it.

Christian squirms and lets out a noise that doesn’t quite register as protest. He hasn’t said stop, so I’m not going to. The taste of his skin is…salty, a little musky. He’s warm and comfortable but also delicious, and I want to find out how many times I’d have to tongue him before I get to the center of his pleasure. I’d be willing to find out.

My cock is heavy and throbbing in my own shorts, and the only reason I can be so chill about taking my time exploring him is because I don’t think I could get off without him touching me—or me touching myself. But it seems we’re both bound by intentions and promises, so I don’t have to worry about it yet. I’m profoundly aware of the fact that my cock is getting hard from toying with the person in front of me and not from some fantasy I had to conjure out of my brain so that I could go through the motions.

I feel more connected to Christian than I have with any of my other partners, and I don’t think it’s a matter of having been friends with him for most of our lives. Maybe that’s what’s enabled this, but it’s not just a fondness built over years of conversations and hanging out and generally being around each other. It’s his body that’s turning me on, and my need to touch him and please him and be pleased by him isn’t a performance anymore. I don’t have to distance myself in order to get the job done. I feel like part of what he enjoys is that I do get lost in him.

Unique and scary and special, because I’m used to having my friends, and I’m used to having sex, and I’m used to having a source to arouse me, but to have all of those things in one place? If I think about it too hard, my mind is going to start reeling. Passing out or having my head hurt would be way less fun than continuing to explore his body.

It’s awkward, but I kinda crawl over him, setting my knees on either side of his thighs but not putting my weight on him. No, I’m careful not to do that because I don’t want him to feel smothered or trapped. In fact, I hover over him for a couple of seconds before doing anything else in case he wants to object, but he doesn’t. I’ll take his silence as at least curiosity.

With his shirt rucked up over his pecs, it’s tempting to obsess over his torso more, but I also have designs on his neck, which is where I’m headed. He must be keyed up, because the tendons in his neck strain against his thin skin, and when I bend down to kiss him there, I can feel his pulse beat right through. It doesn’t help that he makes a tiny, choked gasping sound that I’ll take as a compliment.

I work and work, enjoying every second of this because of how intense and how powerful the feelings are. I want to devour him. And it makes me wonder—is this normal? The way he makes me feel? Or is there something special about it? Does everyone get to feel this way or has this been reserved for me? Like I’ve never had it before so when I finally do get it, it’s concentrated? I’m not honestly sure which I’d prefer. To a point, it doesn’t matter because I’d still be doing what I’m doing anyway, and it would still feel incredible.

Kissing and mouthing my way up his neck, I reach the sweet hollow behind his ear, and why aren’t there more songs—or any, come to think of it—about the perfection of that tiny piece of skin. It’s a shame there isn’t a name for it, but probably any name would be remote and scientific and wouldn’t convey exactly how intoxicating it could be. Anatomy is the worst at that, giving unsexy names to very sexy things. If aliens ever show up and try to learn our language, they’re going to have some very strange ideas about what is sexy or lovely or attractive, and what sounds we can absolutely do without.

Teague is killing me. For all the times I’ve fantasized about him, I didn’t think he’d be like this. No, I pictured him having swagger and so much game it’d make my head spin. He’s making me dizzy, yeah, but from his earnest and drawn-out…I can’t call it a seduction, because that’s clearly not the point, but that’s what he’s doing to me anyhow. It’s this exhilarating mix of experience and discovery, and I hope it never stops.

No, that’s not quite true. I want him to be comfortable enough that I’ll be able to touch him at the same time as he does this, but it is kind of heady knowing that my touch has the power to fry his brain like an egg. Maybe he’s doing it more slowly—at first so slowly I didn’t even realize it was happening, the temperature on low—but he’s being so thorough my brain is baked anyhow. It’s like having my senses cooked sous vide rather than flash-fried. He’s doing such a job of it—slowly, luxuriously, tenderly making me sweat—I am boneless, except for in one very specific part of my body, which is anything but slack. No, my cock is pulsing with want.

And yet I will not grab Teague and kiss him, force him to drop his weight down onto me so I can have his ridiculous body pressed against mine. I’ll let him focus on these small actions and motions until he feels steady enough to move on. While he does, I’ll allow myself to soak in the knowledge that he’s having this experience so many people take for granted—and he’s having it with me. I don’t know if there’s a reason for his brain or his hormones or his body or whatever it is that’s kicked into gear to have focused on me or if a switch got flipped, but I like to think it’s the former, that it has something to do with me, and that makes me feel really fucking good, as does Teague.

At the moment, he’s spending an inordinate amount of time nosing and kissing and licking that delicious space right where ear meets jaw and it’s making my head swim. Swimming is right because I’m drowning in every sensory input I can glean from the small things he’s doing. Though his mouth is the one point of contact, I can still feel the heat of his body radiating off him, can still breathe in that slightly sleep-musty scent of him, hear his soft breathing as he drives me wild.

Teague moves on to my earlobe, taking the flesh first into his mouth to give it a lavish suck and then sinking his teeth into it. In an effort not to roll him onto his back and show him what for, I grip his bed linens between my fingers and hold on for dear life. Roll my head to the side so he has as much room as possible to work and try not to gasp so loudly he thinks he needs to stop. He doesn’t need to, I don’t want him to, and in fact, I think I might expire if he does.

He doesn’t.

No, his tongue and his teeth on my ear—which are surprisingly deft, considering he’s such a giant—don’t stop. He’s apparently enjoying this, and I hope I’m giving him enough encouragement. It’s not in my nature to be loud or overly expressive with my partners. He seems unbothered, though.

When he shifts, I expect him to hover over me and press his mouth to my lips. Should I kiss him back when he does? Or would even that be too much for him? And if I don’t, will it be like sticking his tongue in a bowl of slugs? But I don’t need to worry, because while he does shift to be centered over me, he doesn’t move up to my mouth, but…down. Jesus Christ, down. He goes back to my pecs and my nipples, making them gather into their pinprick points by scraping over each of them with a fingernail.

Short-circuiting is a thing that’s not exclusive to Teague, because I think my brain went offline. Everything I’ve ever done with my partners has been mutual. We’ve both been going at each other. And when it’s been more one-sided, I’ve been on the giving end. I like to give, feel comfortable in that role, and now that I’m being forced onto the other side, it’s unnerving.

I remind myself, though, that this is in service to Teague’s wishes, and that helps a little. But I still feel self-conscious as he reverse-crawls down my legs and his mouth and hands work down my torso, finding lines I don’t think all that much of being there. Like, yeah, I have abs, but it’s because I’m skinny, not because I’m built like he is. But his attention, the lingering wet worship of it, is making me feel more attractive, more worthy of attention than I ever have.

As he slips farther down, my breath gets caught up in my chest like it doesn’t quite know where to go. And then it basically stops as he tugs at the waistband of my shorts.

“Can I?”

Somewhere inside me, hysterical laughter burbles, because this is absurd. This guy who I’ve been lusting after for a ridiculously long time wants to get in my pants? Unless he were intoxicated or somehow under duress, I would never say no.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Anything you don’t like? That I shouldn’t do?”

Hell, I’d let him do just about anything. It’s a time of discovery for us both. But since he’s asked, “I’m not a masochist. I don’t like being hurt or when people are rough.”

Teague nods, his face grave as though he is taking this Very Seriously™. Which is nice, but he doesn’t need to treat me like I’m fragile. I’m fucking not. I try to tamp that reaction down. He’s never given me the impression that he thinks I’m weak. If anything, he calls me for help because he thinks I’m strong enough to bear the burden.

It doesn’t hurt that most thoughts besides holy shit leave my head when his big hand slips under my waistband and drags my briefs down, making my cock spring up like a goddamn jack-in-the-box. It feels good not to be contained in the tight and not terribly forgiving confines of my underwear, but I feel like it’s also made more space in my dick to be flooded with blood and I really didn’t need any more. I was pretty light-headed and throbbing to begin with.

For a few seconds, he looks at me. Eyes my dick like he’s never seen one before, which is preposterous. He’s even seen the dick in question before. But not like this—no, never like this. It makes me feel more naked, more pierced than I’ve ever been, which makes no sense given that A) I still have clothes on, and B) he’s nowhere near inside of me.

When he drags his gaze from my crotch to my face, my cheeks flame. I don’t think I have anything to be embarrassed about in this department. I’m by no means hung, but I’m at the very least proportional. I know he’s been with, like, literal porn stars, but you can’t tell me he thinks that’s what most people are like in the genitalia department. Everyone knows that’s…not accurate.

But when he finally opens his mouth, it’s not to scoff at the size of my junk.

“You know, I’ve heard people talk about dicks like they’re works of art. And I never really understood it. I mean, yeah, they’re fine. And they definitely serve a purpose. Several, actually, and that’s cool. I like useful things. But I’ve never thought much of them otherwise. But you… God, Christian, your cock makes my mouth water.”

Holy shit. What exactly am I supposed to say to that? It’s not something I’m used to hearing, nor is it, like, an everyday compliment.

“Thank you?”

He laughs then, because I’m a fucking idiot, and I rub my hands over my face and into my hair.

In between his cackles, he manages a “You’re welcome?”

Then it’s all over. We’re in bed with each other, laughing our asses off because even an earnest dick compliment is an awkward one.

When we’ve recovered, he’s still hovering over me, and things don’t seem so funny anymore. They seem, in fact, quite serious.

Teague opens his mouth to say something, seems to think better of it, and then he’s levering down onto one elbow and lowering his head at the same time as he circles the base of my cock with his hand. And then, then, his mouth is on me. Yep, there. And holy sweet hell does it feel phenomenal.

The slick wet heat of it is incredible, and dammit, it’s Teague, wanting to blow me. I didn’t ask him. I didn’t have to. It’s not as though it’s a brushed kiss or anything either; it’s a luxurious half-lick, half-suck, and he doesn’t stop. Explores with his tongue and makes small sounds of musing and pleasure. The way he’s exploring has the potential to feel almost clinical, as though I’m a specimen to be examined and studied. But it feels oh-so-much better than that, and I relish the small hums and experimental motions of his tongue and lips and, yeah, even a little teeth that sets my nerves on edge but doesn’t hurt at all. It feels dangerous, though, my whole pelvis lighting up like it’s electrified. Makes me clench my fists and try to hold my hips steady so I don’t rock up into his mouth and startle him. So I grind it out from between my teeth instead.

“Teague. You’re killing me. If you keep that up, I’m gonna come.”

He pops off, his face bright and his lips slick and a bit swollen, and he smiles, his mouth so close to my throbbing erection that I can feel his breath. “Maybe I want you to.”

“That’s—” He cuts me off with a single, darting, mischievous lick, and I have to shut my eyes. “That’s fine—really, totally, completely, and utterly fine—I just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t be surprised. And if you weren’t ready for this to be over…”

“Are you not ready for this to be over? I could draw it out. I like sucking you, having your cock in my mouth, feeling it with my tongue and making you moan.”

“I have been ready to blow basically since you kissed me, so no, I don’t feel the need to draw this out at all. But I…” Hard swallow, because I will say this, dammit, I will be respectful of Teague and his feelings and his wishes and his surprising newness to this. On the other hand, I have never truly believed that blue balls were an actual thing until today, with him. If I don’t get off before I go home, I know what’ll be my first order of business when I get there. I’m going to rub one out ASAP and probably climax so hard, my come will leave a hole in the ceiling. “I will do whatever you want, whatever you need. But if we’re gonna do this for much longer, I might need a break.”

More like a cold shower and thinking about decidedly unsexy things. Teague’s got me so wound up that everything I picture, everything I try to think about, is a turn-on and it’s not helping. Not in the least.

He cocks his head, seems to be considering what I’ve said, mulling over the choices I’ve offered him. “Nah, we’re good.”

And then he’s on me again, taking me deeper into his mouth, dipping even into his throat, his eyes closed with his lashes fanning over his cheeks, and he’s so goddamn pretty. Honestly, who thought making a man this beautiful was a good idea? He is just offensively handsome. And he looks even better with those perfect lips wrapped around my cock.

It doesn’t take long because I was on a hair-trigger as it was, and now I get the feeling that he’s not so much exploring and analyzing as he is driving toward the inevitable conclusion. Still enjoying himself and still making noises like he’s jotting down notes on the experience, but it’s not directionless. It is very much rushing toward the finish line.

I’d like to cup my hand around his head, the base of his neck, feel his hair between my fingers as I careen toward blowing my load, but I can keep my hands to myself—for now. Doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about it, and who knew my fantasies could add such tame, mundane details when something so filthy I’ve wished so hard and so long for is actually coming true? My brain is really fucking greedy. Like, what, this isn’t enough for you? For fuck’s sake, this should be enough. More than enough. I want to beat back those self-centered demands with a stick, but it turns out I don’t have to, because Teague looks up from what he’s doing, takes his mouth off me. His lips are still so close that his breath skates across the spit-slicked head of my cock.

“You can touch me,” he says. His eyes are fever-bright, and he’s breathless between broad strokes of his tongue from my base to the tip, ending with a lavish suck that nearly draws me out, sets me off. “Touch me, but don’t…steer me. But you can, I want you to—”

He swallows me down again like he can’t bear not to have me inside his mouth for any longer than absolutely necessary, and his enthusiasm is, god, I don’t remember the last time someone wanted me so badly, couldn’t get enough of me, and it’s intoxicating.

Also, I’m not going to refuse him this thing he’s asked for and that I want so very badly for myself so I unfurl my fingers from the bed linens and snake a hand up to his shoulder, over his rock-hard trapezius, and up his neck, spearing my fingers through his hair. Just as he’s asked, I don’t try to control him at all—hell, I wouldn’t pick a different rhythm than the one he’s established even if he’d offered that, too. I rest the pads of my fingers and thumb against his scalp, let his sandy hair sift through my fingers as his head bobs up and down the length of my cock.

It’s that final intimate touch that does me in.

“Teague, I’m gonna come. Like, now. So if you don’t—”

“I do. I want to fucking taste you, Christian.”

And there it is. My eyes roll back in my head as my balls pull up and squeeze so tight it’s like they’re in a vise. Bliss rockets through me, and then suddenly I’m spilling into Teague’s mouth. I brace myself for him to pull away, because I remember the first time I swallowed and how the guy’s come in my mouth took me by surprise. I almost bit him. But this isn’t Teague’s first rodeo. He’s done this before—I’d guess a not-insignificant amount of times—and it’s perhaps only the enjoyment of it he hasn’t experienced before.

He does seem to enjoy it too, making a pained groan that sounds like ecstasy when he takes the first swallow. A noise that sounds like he’s pleading for more, and I give it to him, as if I could do otherwise. Another mouthful he relishes and laves the head of my cock, encouraging even more to spill out, sucking at me gently until I’ve got nothing left to give him.