Page 30 of Pucked Up

I continued to rub his dick until he was restless, squirming against my hold, and when he started to whine in the back of his throat, I let go.

“Fuck.Why?” he gasped.

I locked eyes with him. “Because you’re not ready yet.” Then I gripped his cock and began to jack him hard and fast.

“Uh, uh, uh fuck fuck, oh my God,” he gasped, burying his face against my chest.

I curled my fingers into the back of his hair and held him fast, dragging him all the way to the edge. When I felt his dick throbbing and thickening, I let go again.

“No!” He fucked his hips forward, grazing the tip of his dick against my shirt, but I wouldn’t give him more than that. “Fuck you. I fucking hate you so much.”

Tipping his chin up, I smiled at him. “I know.” Then I shoved my hand into his pants and grabbed him by the balls. I knew the way he liked to be handled—rough yet careful. Tender yet cruel. “Open your shirt,” I told him, leaning back to give him space.

He was wild-eyed. “What? Why?”

“Because I said so.”

I could see the fight in him. I could see that he was losing. His fingers were no longer shaking. They were stiff, but that was just his hands. He worked at his buttons, and I saw the struggle, but I didn’t help. I knew that was the last thing he wanted.

He tensed under the scrutiny of my gaze, but he didn’t stop. One by one, the buttons popped open until he had his bare chest on display. It was as hairy as the rest of him—dark, coarse, not thick, but not patchy.

Rolling his balls gently in my palm, I used my free hand to trace around his right nipple and thenhis left. They pebbled, and he gasped. “You like this?”

He narrowed his gaze. “Repeat yourself.”

I’d almost forgotten he was hard of hearing, and my head had been tipped too far down. “You like this, yes?” I punctuated the sentence by pinching his left nipple firmly between my fingers, holding it down until he lost the control on his gasp.

“Esti de marde,” he swore. “YouknowI do. Stop playing with me!”

“Why would I do that?” I asked him, smiling. I removed my hold on his balls, then gripped his dick again and began an impossibly slow, tight motion over his shaft. It would be better with lube, but I’d remember that for next time. I’d keep a supply in my drawer because I knew this wouldn’t be the last time he came to me for this exact reason.

He hated it. And he loved it.

He didn’t want to need it, but he did, and that was driving him wild.

“Faster,” he demanded.

I laughed and picked up speed. I would do anything he asked…except make him come. Not yet, anyway. His flush made his freckles stand out, made his short beard look darker. His head lolled back, and his hips stuttered as they tried to chase his orgasm.

I got him close—so fucking close.

And then I let go again.

“Fucking bastard! You fucking piece of shit!”

Those angry curses were like poetry. Little declarations of love by a man who wasn’t sure how to askfor what he wanted. A man who still didn’t believe he deserved to get it.

I let his nipple go and took him by the chin, turning his head to the side, and I sank my teeth into his tendon. It would leave a mark—for now. He hissed, his hips moving again, and I let him fuck his cock against my palm for a short while.

And then I let go.

“Why?” His voice was like a sob now. He was trembling with need, desperate. His ache was probably painful.

“Because you still weren’t ready.”

He caught that—the past tense. His eyes met mine, and he licked his lips nervously. In that moment, I could tell he knew what I wanted to hear, and that was the real battle in his head. Would he give it to me? The pride he would have to swallow would probably choke him.

“Boden,” I murmured.

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