Page 80 of Employing Patience

His arms around me loosen, hands skimming up and down my sides, along my arms, up my back, one hand burying in my hair. Gripping hard. Pulling.

“O teu cabelo vai ser a minha morte.”

I tremble against him, completely at his mercy, neck arched backward, exposed, for him to suck more bruises into my skin. His thumb brushes my nipples, teeth graze my shoulder, grunts fill my ear, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m pushing back onto him, matching Art’s pace thrust for thrust. We’re both sweaty. Both close. Both desperately trying to hold out.

But playing chicken with my cock only works for so long before I’m giving in and wrapping my hand around it. I’ve never been this desperate in my life. Never driven this mad with need.

Art’s hands have found a home on my hips as he slams into me, and I alternate between pushing back and fucking my fist.

I’m leaking, balls tight, and even though I wasn’t sure at first, I never want this to end. Never want to be parted from him.

I feel so filthy and raw and vulnerable to be connected to him like this. It’s different, for so many reasons, but the biggest one isn’t what’s happening physically, but all the shit going on inside me.

I try to ignore it. Try to push it down. But it builds right alongside my orgasm until I can’t take it anymore. Art’s nailing that spot that’s making my body sing, that’s making my cock swell and beg for relief. And when it hits, my orgasm sizzles along my spine, burns in my groin, and my whole body tenses up as I finally, finally come.

Waves roll over me, one closely followed by the next, as Art gives a few more hard, erratic thrusts before he goes tense too.

I have no idea if I can actually feel him twitching in my ass or if it’s all my imagination, but almost as soon as it’s over, I want to feel it again.

Instead, he slips out, and I try not to complain.

Apparently, my whine does the same job though.

Art hums, deliciously low, and pulls me upright so I’m pressed back against him.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds me there, and while my orgasm gave me physical relief, that dumb feeling inside of me grows.

“I don’t want to go home,” I say.

Art’s lips press to the skin behind my ear. “Then don’t.”

THE SORRY SUCKAS GROUP CHAT

Art: Joey says hey ;)

24

ART

I can’t get enough of my fingers on his skin. Mapping out the grooves between muscle and tendon and bones. The tiny moles, his light body hair. The almost-healed scratch on his arm. And my bruises.

It’s not only that they turn me on; it’s something deeper, something more than that. I’ve given guys hickeys before during sex, but I’ve never once had one back, and once the high was over, I had no interest in looking at them again.

When it comes to Joey, I can’t stop looking. Touching. Kissing. He’s filling the well inside of me that I never knew existed. It’s an emotion I’m not used to, and I’m not even sure I want to get used to it. Feeling claimy over someone, feeling like I can never let them go, that I’ll lose my ever-loving mind seeing them with someone else … it’s not me.

I desperately want to cling to the guy I am.

I like that guy.

But … I’m starting to worry that I like Joey more.

“Okay,” Joey says, voice scratchy. “You know we’ll probably have to sleep at some point tonight, yeah?”

“Sleep is overrated.”

“Says the guy who keeps whining that I don’t get enough.”

He’s got me there. “You should catch up with sleep so you don’t have to do it when you’re with me.”

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