Page 46 of Crave

He didn’t take it.

And without that hesitation, I dragged his trousers down till they caught at his ankles, then I sank to my knees. His cock snapped up, slick at the tip, waiting. For me. The sound he made hit me straight in the gut. Yeah, I wanted it. Always had. I liked dick, sure. Preferred it. Craved it. But what I really liked was control.

Only this time, it didn’t feel as if I had any.

But to pretend, I shoved his hips back into the wall, brick biting into his bare arse, and held him there. Made him feel what I felt. Exposed. Stripped down. No armour left. Because that’s what he’d done to me from the start. He’d got under my skin. Looked right through the noise, the front, the name. And I hated it. Needed it.

Both at once.

I took him into my mouth. Deep. All the way. Till he filled me, heavy and hot, and fuck, he tasted good.

“Oh, God,” he gasped, hitting his head on the wall with a dull crack. “Fuck. God.”

I worked him good, dragging my tongue so I could hear that sound again. That broken edge in his breath, then pulled off, let him hang there. Cock wet, twitching in the cold air. The danger of it, the alley, the open street, the chance someone might see, crawled under my skin, right into my blood. He wanted it too; I could feel it in the way he shook, in the noise he made. In how he didn’t even try to hide himself. He was wrecked over this. Same as me.

If my world saw me like this, on my knees, taking cock down my throat, they’d think I’d gone soft. But this? This weren’t softness. This was power. Making a man stand bare in the dark, trousers round his ankles, knowing I could do anything to him and he’d still want more? That’s control. And that was my hit. Him at my mercy, breath shaking, waiting for me to finish him.

Yeah. That was my fucking addiction right there.

So I dragged him back in. Lips to the tip, tongue teasing, then down till he hit the back of my throat. Once. Twice. Again. Again. My jaw ached, breath burning, throat gagging on him, but I didn’t stop till he was trembling, scraping the brick behind him with his fingernails cause he didn’t know where to put them. Then I pulled off, licking him clean, lips slick and swollen, and stared up at him.

“You’re a filthy, pretty thing, ain’t ya?”

He gasped, eyes wide, voice only breath when he looked down and said, “Yeah.”

I wrapped my hand around him, firm, making him feel every inch I gave him. “Say you want it.”

“I want it.” He didn’t even hesitate.

I dragged my thumb over the slit, lazy strokes spreading his slick down the length of him. Then I watched the head disappear and reappear through my grip. He was leaking. Trembling. Begging. God, it was good. It’d been a while since I’d done this.

I bent in, licked the tip, tasted salt and heat and want. “Dirty fucker.”

He jerked his hips with instinct, not intention, and swore under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut before a moan slipped free. Christ, he was addictive like that. All undone and still trying to hold on.

“You want me to make you come?”

“God… yeah. Please.”

That plea? That’s my high. Same rush as when I’ve got some bastard pinned to the floor, bleeding and begging, and knowing I’m the one who decides how it ends. This ain’t any different. Him begging me to keep going hits the same place as them begging me to stop. It’s the power. That’s what gets in my blood. Keeps me coming back for more.

So I took him in again. Deeper. Tip brushing my throat, nose buried in that perfectly trimmed hair. I swallowed, flexing my throat around him till he groaned. His legs gave a little, and I caught him by the hips, held him steady. Felt the tremor of it run up my arms.

I don’t do this. Not for anyone. Not anymore.

Not because I can’t, but because when I have, it meant something.

Yeah, I’ve done it before. Back when I was young, stupid, still working myself out. Before I learnt it was a death wish round my way. After that, I got careful. Kept it quiet. If I went down on a bloke, it was paid for and private. The whole boyfriend act wrapped up neat and forgettable. That way, no one could use it against me.

But with him? There wasn’t any thought. Just want. He’d stripped me bare the second he looked at me. Maybe this was my way of evening the score. Keeping his dick out in the air, making him raw, as exposed as I was. And when he came, I sucked him through it. Took every pulse, every shudder, my hand tight around his base, his breath stuttering. Mine wasn’t much steadier.

Then I spat to the side, wiped my mouth, and looked up at him.

I didn’t know if I wanted to hit him again or kiss him. Maybe both.

But when I stood, he made the choice for me. He dragged me in, mouth open, blood still slick between us and kissed me hungrily. Yeah, it was fucked. Him all over me like that, trousers still round his ankles, cock softening, leaking onto the pavement. It was as if he got off on the danger. The mess, the ruin of it all. Then he tore at my jeans, and I didn’t stop him. Helped, even. Pulled them down, let my cock slide against his, hot against spent, skin to skin. I rocked into him, our breaths crashing, his tongue finding mine again. Then he wrapped his hand around me, rough and fast, and I grunted into his mouth, teeth clashing, hips jerking. The sound I made wasn’t human. More growl than breath. I came hard, spurting down his hand, over him, the heat of it spilling between us.

Afterwards, the world went quiet. Only the echo of our breathing and the hum of traffic somewhere beyond the alley. I rested my forehead on his, sweat cooling, blood copper-sweet on my tongue, and gave myself a second. Just one. Because if I thought too hard about what I’d done, how good it had felt, I’d have to admit what it was.