Page 8 of Daddy

I take him steadily, letting him adjust to me. He pushes back to meet my thrusts, and I move a little faster. “Fist that big cock while I fuck your tight ass,” I demand. Perching himself on his forearm, he does exactly as he’s told. “You’re going to go right to the edge, and then you’re gonna stop like a good fucking boy.”

He fucks his hand as I thrust into him slow and deep. “Fuck…” he exhales, slowing his pace, his ass quivering around my cock as fights the urge to come. Squeezing me so tightly that I’m left fighting my own urges.

“Such a good boy.” I bend over him, kissing across his shoulders and toward his neck. “Do it again.”

I edge him over and over—bringing him to the brink until he’s a sweaty mess beneath me. And every second of it is fucking amazing. Gripping his hips, I pick up my pace—taking him hard and fast. “Don’t stop this time,” I order, quickly losing my breath and watching his ass jiggle as my hips slam against it.

He’s right on the precipice—mere thrusts away from coming. “Don’t you dare come,” I grit through my clenched jaw. I fuck him without abandon, trying desperately to catch up and pushing him closer to his release. “You don’t come without Daddy’s permission.”

His whole body clenches, and he grips the arm of the couch, still fisting himself and struggling not to come. “Please let me come, Daddy!” he gasps, struggling to get the words out. I fist his muscular hips and slam into him. His face contorted in agony, he cries out, “Please, Daddy!”

“Yes,” I grunt. “Come for me.” His body relaxes for a split second, tightening again as his orgasm assaults every muscle in his body. Crying out as cum spills over his hand, he clenches around me like a vise. And I’m done. I shoot my release into him with a roar that echoes around my apartment.

“Fuck,” I breathlessly exhale, pulling myself from his ass. After climbing from the couch, I tuck my cock back into my pants and grab my shirt from the floor. I pull it over my head and kneel before the arm of the couch, where Jorge’s exhausted body is slumped over it. “You are fucking incredible.” I press my lips to his as I slip the blindfold from his face. “I’ll be right back. I need to get a cloth to clean you up.”

Even though I’m gone only a moment, Jorge is asleep by the time I return with a damp cloth and a glass of water. He stirs slightly but doesn’t wake as I wipe the cum from his hand or when I clean the mess I made of him. I sit beside him and pull him into my lap, covering us with the blanket from the back of the couch. Staring down at him in the dimly lit living room, I run my fingers through his hair as he sleeps.

I’m so fucked…

CHAPTERELEVEN

JORGE

When I wake, I stretch and feel a slight ache in nearly all my muscles—a reminder that last night was real, even if it did feel like a dream.

A really good fucking dream.

Blinking to adjust to the sun shining into the room, I notice my clothes are folded neatly on the coffee table.The man folded my boxer briefs. Who does that?I lift my head and find myself staring directly at a cloudy white splatter staining his otherwise pristine couch.Oh, fuck! Did I actually come on his couch?

Grabbing my shirt, I hastily pull it over my head and scramble to put on my pants, my fingers fumbling in a hurry. I’m used to mornings like this—leaving quickly before the awkward goodbyes or ‘how are you this morning’ conversations.Or in this case, a ‘sorry I came on your couch’ conversation.It’s easiest for one-night stands—no need for explanations of regrets.

Hopping across the room as I make my way to the door, I pull on my shoe. I undo the deadbolt and wrap my hand around the knob. “Sneaking out?” Rory’s deep voice startles me, and I freeze. My hand still on the partially turned knob, I glance over my shoulder to find him standing in the hallway with a calm, calculated expression.

This isn’t in my playbook. Unsure what to say, I scramble, trying to think up an excuse to leave—anyexcuse—but my mind is completely blank. Dumbfounded, I glance between him and the door and stammer, “Um… I… I just thought….”

He stares at me with his piercing blue eyes as he closes the distance between us. His fingers slide along my jaw, tilting my head slightly to meet his gaze. “You thought wrong,” he whispers, pressing his lips to mine. It’s soft and tender—yet enough to make my heart race. “I’d like to see you again tonight. Here. Same time.”

Surprised by his request, I hesitate for a moment then blurt, “I have work until two. I can’t?—”

“You’ll be off at eleven,” he insists with confidence. “I’ll make sure of it.”

I want to argue. Tell him he doesn’t have the right to change my schedule. That it’s presumptuous as fuck to assume I want to see him again. But I can’t. The way he speaks—his commanding confidence—I’m pretty sure he could ask me to do anything.Not that he’s asking.

He cups my jaw and places another kiss against my lips. Pulling back, his lips dust against my ear as he whispers, “Then it’s settled. I’ll see you tonight.”

After stepping into the elevator, I swipe open my phone to find several missed texts from Layla.

LAYLA

Where did you run off to?

Hello?

Is this a Benson & Stabler or Reid & Morgan matter?

Seriously Jorge. It’s 2am. Are you okay?

Not serial killed or SVU’ed. I’m alive.

---