Page 10 of Don't Say You're Sorry

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Let me see you.”

I gaze up at him, my eyes streaming, his precum and my spit dripping down my jaw.

“Still a fucking masochist…” he mutters.

I laugh the best I can with my mouth full of his cock. His jaw tics as he moves my hands to his hips, finally letting me touch him, his fingers clutching the hair at the back of my head. He’s close. So close.

“I like your hair this length,” he rasps. “Don’t cut it.”

I nod obediently.

“Hold on to me.”

That’s the only warning I get before he’s fucking my mouth with fervor, chasing his release. I slide my hands around to his ass and squeeze. His hips stutter, and he widens his stance, caging me in with his feet on either side of my knees. I wonder if he’ll let me?—

“Do it.”

Swiping some of the wetness from my jaw, I reach for his ass again, parting his cheeks and rubbing his hole with my fingers. He pulls my hair so hard it hurts as the first drop of his release hits the back of my throat. Knowing I don’t have much time, I gently slide the tip of my middle finger inside him and fuck him with it.

He groans as he comes. Balls deep, he rolls his hips against my face, my nose buried in his pubes as he buries his cock deep inside my mouth.

I choke and retch.

I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. I don’t fucking care anymore. I could drown in his cum and die a happy motherfucker.

When he’s done, he releases me and staggers back a step, my finger slipping out of his ass. He watches me with his brows lowered as I swallow and lick my lips. Breathless and hard as a rock, I tip my head back and rub my palm over the front of my pants, desperately trying to ease the ache there.

Is this even real? Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m living in one of my drawings. Maybe pining for my stepbrother for so long has finally driven me insane.

“Are you real?” I reach up with my free hand, grasping nothing but air.

I pout.

The possibly imaginary Easton in front of me bounces his eyes between mine, then looks at my exposed chest, and then finally, down at my hand on my dick. He mutters something I don’t catch and drops to his haunches in front of me, his fingers clutching my jaw.

Real. He’s very real.

He squints at me. “Did you eat today?”

“Yes. I mean, a bit…” I didn’t eat at the party tonight—I was too busy obsessing over him—which means I haven’t eaten since I picked at a plate of breakfast at the airport this morning. With the time difference, I guess that was about twenty hours ago.

“When was the last time you had some water?”

“I don’t know. This morning, maybe.”

Rolling his eyes, he stands up, grabs a towel off the rack, and wraps it around his waist. “Stay here.”

I open my mouth to ask where he’s going, but he’s already gone.

Pursing my lips, I consider getting off the floor, then think better of it. He told me to stay, so I stay.

When he returns a couple minutes later, his steps falter. He raises a brow, an amused smile touching his lips when he realizes I took his order literally.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hands and pulling me to my feet. “You need to eat and drink something.”

I’m still painfully hard as I turn and wash my hands, unable to help ogling the reflection of Easton’s body above the sink.So beautiful.

He walks out, stealing my view of him, and I follow him into his bedroom where a bottle of water and a sandwich sit on his nightstand.

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