Page 71 of Hard to Judge

His thumb smooths over my swollen bottom lip. “One day,” he promises.

My nod will have to suffice. If I speak, I’ll sob like a fucking baby.

Arlo rolls his hips, and we both curse. The heft of his dick slides along mine, bumping along my bars one at a time.

He straddles my hips, and his fingers get to work unbuttoning my suit coat and my dress shirt. It’s a unique kind of foreplay, watching his fingers drag along my abdomen and up my chest while our dicks nestle together.

The thought of them nestled together inside Hailey makes mine twitch.

“I’m about to come from minimal contact, if you don’t?—”

He throws my shirt wide and grabs both our dicks in his hand, slicing my words in half. His mouth works, and then a long line of spit drips out from between his lips and onto our cockheads.

“Arlo.” My eyes threaten to roll back in my head, but I’ll be damned if I miss a second of the show. He works our flesh together, spreading his saliva and our precum from base to tip with both fucking hands. Then his hips piston.

“Motherfucker.” Air burns its way out of my lungs. My hips work in opposition to his. The tips of my fingers dig into his thighs. I don’t have time to think about how he’ll receive the touch. I’m too busy gasping and groaning and trying not to come so damn soon.

It’s no use. The pressure builds in my spine and tingle in my balls.

“I’m going to…” Words prelude my ropey strings by a fraction of a second.

“Yes, Hota. Come for me.” His hips buck. “Fuck yes, Hota.”

He shoots right behind me. Our cum tangles in his fingers and flies onto my abdomen. It even paints my chest.

I ride the high as long as I can, and then reality tugs me back toward earth. I brace for his freak-out. For the distance he’ll put between us. For the loss when it hits.

His fingers slowly work the last of our release from our tips.

My breath stills.

Arlo leans forward and smears our cum into my skin, coating damn near every square inch of available flesh. “Maybe if I mark you, you’ll know you’re mine.”

I’ve always been his.

He was mine for a blink of an eye.

I keep my traitorous lips closed. No need to spoil the moment.

The tip of Arlo’s finger traces the line of my mouth. I open to clean it off.

“No, that’s not for you.” He leans closer. His lips drag across mine. My heart somersaults through my chest.

His tongue snakes out and licks me clean. I groan into his mouth.

“You let me know when you’re ready,” he breathes against my lips.

I’m jittery, like I’m headed to a first date. I’m not. This man has been inside me, for Christ’s sake, and still, I check my hair in the reflection of the car window. I adjust my coat, wondering if it’s too bulky and will send the wrong signal. A gust of icy wind reminds me it’s January in New York.

The moment I head for the building’s front door, I sigh with relief. Not because my jitters are gone but because I find Hotaru through the glass front. He’s standing in the lobby’s mirror, adjusting his tie. He fiddles with his long black hair that’s tied into a knot atop his head.

He looks like a superhero at his day job. Clark Kent, the Japanese version.

Hot!

I push through the door, and he turns with the catlike reflexes I’ve come to know. He rushes forward, grabs the door high above my head, and ushers me inside.

“I hate that you wouldn’t let me pick you up,” he snarls into my ear.

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