Excerpt:
Working my way from the base of his throat, I kissed a line down his chest, nuzzling the sparse patch of hair between his pecs. He was panting softly as I continued lower, my hands sliding down his arms so I could still hold him. When my tongue dipped below the waistband of his yoga pants, he spread his legs so quickly that he almost kneed me in the head.
“Cooking got you all hot and bothered again?”
“Ha, ha. I haven't been cooking. I've been rearranging the pantry.” He looked down at me, defiantly. He and I have a long-standing rule: if he ever arranges the spices alphabetically, I'm outta here. “No, I didn't.”
“Good.” I slid my hands under his ass so I could tug the elastic-waisted pants down. He wasn't wearing underwear.
“Bare ass on the counter, Liam!”
“I'll clean it. Unless you want me to stop?”
I could almost smell his mind working on that one—dirty kitchen counter and sex, or clean counter and none?
He nodded, briskly, squirming a little to help me undress him.
“I thought so,” I told him, smugly.
“Shut up,” he said, very softly and without any heat.
“Make me,” I said, pulling his pants down around his ankles and gagging myself very effectively.
After a few minutes, Jason laughed, pushing me away. “The counter isn’t exactly the most comfortable place to sit,” he reprimanded, gently. “If we’re doing this—and we are—let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”
I licked my lips cheekily, grinning up at him, my hand slowly stroking over his spit-slick dick. I was impressed he could still talk, and I’d definitely have to do something about that. “All right. If you want to go all the way upstairs to the bedroom...”
He whined, a high-pitched, wordless sound of frustration. He visibly struggled with himself, then said, “Couch. But put down a blanket first!”
While he might allow brief nudity on a wipeable surface like the counter, there was no way either of our bare butts were ever going to touch his white leather couch. He had brought it into the relationship, and if we ever broke up, God help him, it was going back out with him.
After covering the couch in a soft blanket, I returned to the kitchen and picked him up again, grunting a little with effort this time—carrying him was a lot harder than just setting him on the counter. I laid him out on the couch, taking a moment to just drink in the sight of him, naked and aroused and wanting me.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmured, smiling softly.
He blushed, then threw a pillow at me. I could see his hips rolling ever so slightly, and I didn’t think he’d let me stare for long without touching him.
“Can you sit up? Gorgeous as you are like this, it’d make things easier.”
He nodded, cheeks still pink, before swinging his legs around and spreading them wide to give me easy access.
I knelt on the flokati rug in front of him, one hand on each of his thighs, just breathing on him for a moment, taking in the scent of his arousal, letting him feel my warm breath on his skin.
He moaned, and I imagined his eyes fluttering shut, but he only gave me a moment before grabbing a handful of my hair—more roughly than usual; what had he been thinking about before I got home?—and pulling me down and forward.
I resisted, just a little, teasing him, drawing out his pleasure because I could and because he wouldn’t tell me what he was planning. I licked his head, relishing the sound he made. He released my hair, petting the top of my head instead of pulling, giving me room to do what I wanted with him. I hoped he’d regret that freedom, that he’d grab me again and force himself deep—but not yet.
I opened my mouth for him, slowly drawing him past my lips and my carefully-covered teeth. I closed my eyes, concentrating only on the feeling, the taste of him, my tongue dancing over his naked cock, exploring.
He moaned again, and the sound had a sharp, needy edge. I felt his hand flex in my hair, but he didn’t pull.
I shifted back a little, giving myself more room to move. Still bracing myself with a hand on each of his legs, I drew away from him until only his head was in my mouth.
His hand tightened again. I was getting to him—triumph.
Taking him as far as I could comfortably again, I slowly built up to a rhythm, feeling him buck and thrust beneath me when I drew back, then sigh and relax when he filled me. I could feel, taste how close he was, but I wanted to make him wait, to make him beg for it, if only with his hand in my hair. He wasn’t there, not yet.
I hummed softly, and he cried out above me. I felt his fingers tense, but they loosened again. I hummed again, taking him just a little deeper than I could manage comfortably for long, then pulled back, leaving him wanting.
He was breathing faster, harder now, getting close to the edge. Right where I wanted him.
After a few more cycles—in...out...in—I slid off entirely, only my hand stroking him now.
He keened, a sound of betrayal.
I looked up at him. Our eyes met, and just for an instant I saw him hesitate before his hand tightened in my hair again, and didn’t release this time. He pulled me down, hard, so my nose was buried in his thick pubic hair. He gave me a little shake, showing he meant it this time.
I pulled back just enough to reach him, and I took him as deep as I could, using speed now more than moving my head all the way forward and back, my tongue lashing him closer to the edge.
He cried out, his whole body tensing, and came down my throat. I swallowed, eagerly, milking every drop out of him with my tongue and lips until he was still again, hand slowly stroking my tangled hair.
“Wow,” he gasped, when he could speak again. “That was—”
“Worth the delay?”
He made a soft grunt that wasn’t quite agreement, but he couldn’t honestly say no.
I lazily stroked his fine, brown hair. He had been dyeing it blond when we first met, insisting that his natural color wasn't fit to be seen, but I had asked to see it grown out just once, and when I hadn't run for the hills, he had let it be.
“Where are we going tonight?” I asked, hoping a little sex had loosened his tongue.
He stuck said tongue out at me, twisting in my arms a little so I could see it. “Not telling.”
“Oh, very mature.”
“And using sex to get me to talk is?”
“Yes. Because sex is mature.”
Lee Fisher is the erotica pen name of T. Strange. Lee has been married to his Sir since 2009, exploring BDSM as a submissive masochist. Lee started writing erotic fanfiction over a decade ago, and now he’s thrilled to share his fantasies and wicked thoughts with you.
Also by Lee Fisher
Belladonna
Night Out
Fucked by Two Stepbrothers - Coming soon!
Stepson's First Time - Coming soon!
Kinky Biker Series
Boots & Leather
Lock & Key - Coming soon!
