Page 25 of Drawing Dead
“My wife…” he slurs, igniting a pang of jealousy. That fucking bitch doesn’t deserve him. She has done enough damage, prepping him for this moment, paving the way for me to track him down and drug him in a bar.
Reaching for his large hand, I wrap his fingers around my veiny length and suck in a breath at the feel of his calloused palm. I nearly come right then and there, jutting my cock against his hip.
His eyes remain closed while I fuck myself with his palm, aroused to the point of agony by the erotic sight of his fingers holding my dick. I’m a masochist.
“Fuck,” I grunt, shuddering. “You like my cock, Marshall? Like a fat dick, do you?”
His lids flutter as I pull down his boxers and grab his weeping dick. He’s aroused, very fucking aroused, and his whole body jerks when I jack him and brush my thumb through a bead of precum on the crown of his cock.
Thrusting my hips into our combined grip on my length, I place a kiss on his shoulder, his chest. “Fuck, that’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”
Just when I’m about to hurtle headfirst into this black hole of madness, I pull my cock away and slide on top of him, looking between our bodies as I rub my dick against his, grinding down.
Precum seeps from my crown onto his, and my balls draw up tight when he groans while fisting the sheets. Unable to look away from his face, I watch his brow furrow. He shudders, his jaw locking tight.
“You like the feel of my cock against yours, don’t you?” I peer down, braced on my arms as I slide my dick against his with increasingly desperate thrusts. I’m an animal, frenzied in my pursuit of marking us both in cum. Fisting the pillow beneath his head, I bite down hard on my lip, two seconds away from blowing my load.
“I always knew you would be this good for me, Professor. Always knew I’d have you beneath me one day.” Shifting onto one elbow, I grab our dicks and stroke in long pulls.
With a shiver, his muscles tense, and I look down just in time to see cum squirt from his dick. A guttural groan escapes him and cuts through my heaving breaths, the erotic sight pushing me over the edge. I moan loudly as my release rains over his chest in quick spurts. Not even my wildest fantasies could compare to seeing our dicks ejaculate together.
Sweaty and exhausted, I hover above him. A final bead of cum defies gravity as it hangs onto the tip of my cock. I’m ruined. I’ll never recover.
Dipping my chin to my chest, a tremor ripples through me. “Fuck…” It’s all I can manage to say.
I collapse onto my back beside him and grip my still-throbbing dick. As the seconds bleed into minutes, I squeeze the softening length while staring at his devastating side profile. He’s an addiction. I don’t know when I got hooked on his brand of heroin, but I’d walk through fire to taste him again.
Pretending for now that this is a mutual affection, I shift closer and slide my fingers through our combined release. One day soon, this drug of a man will beg me to come all over him and paint his face in cum. One day, I’m going to be his ruin.
“You better be ready for me, Professor Kirk,” I whisper, coating his parted lips in cum before sucking my fingers clean. “I’m about to rain hell on your life.”
CHAPTER 2
MARSHALL
Ascrewdriver drills deep into my brain. At least, that’s what it feels like when the blaring alarm goes off. My hand flies out, and I slap it down on top of the digital clock.
Blissful silence falls.
I rub my eyes, wincing when the dull ache behind my temple intensifies. What the fuck did I have to drink last night?
I pause as my fingers dig into my eyeballs. How the hell did I get home? I have no memory of leaving the bar.
Blowing out a breath, I drag my hand down my face. I’m in need of a shave, the stubble sharp against my palm.
How will I teach lessons today when I feel like I was hit by a truck last night? I haven’t felt this bad in years. Not since I was a young man who hadn’t yet learned to handle his alcohol.
I suddenly become aware of a presence beside me and lower my hand before slowly turning my head.
My eyes widen. What the fuck?
There are moments in life when the brain struggles to catch up. This is one of those times. I blink, but the vision stays the same. Karl’s son, Cruz, is in my bed. Naked, by the looks of it.
He’s asleep on his front with both arms tucked beneath the pillow, and the quilt pools around his lower waist. His lips are slightly parted, and his mussed-up, raven hair—courtesy of his Portuguese mother—flops over his eyes.
My heart has stopped beating. I’m sure of it. What the hell happened last night? Why is he in my bed? Fuck! Even though it’s obvious why he’s naked, my brain still takes its sweet time.
When it finally does, my eyes fly wide open as terror seizes my chest. This is bad.