Page 21 of But For You

His tongue invaded, taking, ravaging. He sucked and nibbled, and I lost track of everything except pushing into him, rubbing my hard, aching cock against his washboard abs and whining my desire in the back of my throat.

Down under him on the couch I went, and our lips never parted, even as my hands went frantically to my belt and he yanked and pulled on my button-down.

I bowed up off the couch when he yanked off my Dockers, felt the cool air on my leaking shaft as he freed it from my briefs and it bounced free. His lips lifted away then, and I would have protested, but they engulfed the head of my cock in the same moment.

“Oh fuck, Sam!” I rasped, arching up, burying myself in the back of his throat, which opened to receive me.

The motion was fluid after so long, his technique seamless—the pullback, the swirl of his tongue, and the fierce, hard suction.

The hands on my ass were insistent, and I knew what he had gone upstairs for when I heard the pop of the cap on the lube just before a finger slid between my cheeks.

“Oh God, just fuck me already!” I yelled at him, squirming, wiggling, trying to get his finger in deeper while sliding in and out of his hot mouth.

Two fingers breached my entrance, pressing forward as my muscles began to relax and open for him.

“You’re so tight,” he whispered as my cock slid from between his lips. “And you’re all slicked up for me.”

I could feel my ass grasping his fingers, three now, pushing in and out, deeper and deeper, and finally curling forward over my prostate. “Sam!”

“Yes, baby?” he asked, his voice raw and strained with desire.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I never want to hurt you—you know that.”

“I do, but I swear that––”

“And I’m a bit concerned about your head and––”

“No concussion, just a bump.”

“Yeah, but––”

I almost cried. “Sam!”

He moved so fast—pulled his fingers from my ass, rolled forward, and flung my legs over his shoulders. I felt the enormous, flared head push against my opening.

My heels were on his back, and I leveraged myself up, lifting, aligning myself for his downward plunge.

He tried to ease in, to make the press slow, but I was dying, my body shaking, ready to explode, so I met him as he thrust forward and stole his well-meaning restraint.

“Fuck!” I screamed when he buried himself to his balls in my ass.

“Jory.”

Never ever did it stop feeling good, did it stop being what I wanted and needed and craved. I was stretched and filled, and when he eased out to ram back inside, again and again, the hammering became all there was.

I was solely focused on my anatomy, on where we were connected, joined, and the throbbing pleasure drowned everything else—the burn, the pinch, and my aching muscles. Only his long, hard, thick cock grinding over my prostate mattered, only his hands clenched on my hips, only his mouth as he bent and sucked and bit my nipples.

“I’m gonna come,” I whined. “I don’t wanna come.”

“You feel so fuckin’ good.” His voice was so low, more a growl than anything else, and I felt his angle change as his rhythm faltered. “Oh fuck, Jory, I want you to come. I love how your body feels when you do it, how you clench around me …”

When he fisted my cock, stroking, tugging, dragging his thumb through dripping precum, I begged him for harder, faster, and deeper.

“Now,” he snarled at me, and as his shaft—swollen thick and rock hard in my ass—pegged my gland, I cried his name.

“Oh.” He jerked inside me as my orgasm roared through me, my muscles contracting around his shaft, squeezing, I was sure, to the point of pain. “Fuck, that’s amazing. You tighten up so hard, so fast … the heat and the pressure … fuck!”