Page 7 of Pucked Up

He let out a satisfied moan, gripping me by the jaw and leaning in. I thought for a moment he was going to devour my mouth, but he didn’t. Instead, he laid his lips against mine and…and he waited. He was waiting for me—maybe to prove that I meant what I said.

My fingers, stiff with anxiety and tension, curled into his shirt. I tugged him close and parted my lips, taking his between my teeth and biting down just enough until he gasped. When he moaned again, I soothed it with my tongue before pushing it into his mouth.

He tasted like the fruity lambic the bar served in the spring, and like something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was just…him. Jean-Luc, or whoever the fuck he was. It didn’t matter anymore. He was mine.

Entirely.

Completely.

And just for the night.

He must have grown tired of waiting for me to take more of a lead because after a forever of kissing like horny teenagers, he started backing me up toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I collapsed, and he went with me.

His hands planted on either side of my head, and he pressed his thick, hard cock against my thigh, rocking against me. My own tried to meet his, threatening to break through my zipper. He chuckledagainst my mouth, sliding a hand down my chest to where I was aching to be touched. The heel of his hand began to press, to stroke, and for a moment, it felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get his bare skin on me.

“Too many clothes,” I mumbled in French. It was a relief to speak my language. English came too easily to me now that I’d been living in Turenne for so long, but there were moments I wanted my mother tongue, and this man allowed me that moment.

Dipping low, he kissed along my tendon as his hands began to ruck up my shirt. When I was free of it, my fingers attacked his buttons. I didn’t have very refined motor skills for buttons, which was why I never wore them. But he was patient with me.

He waited, staring down at me like he enjoyed the frantic expression on my face. He smiled with each little pop, pop, pop, and then he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. His chest was bare, thick, and covered in dark hair. I ran my fingers through it, suddenly obsessed with the way it felt against my palms.

He grunted softly when I went for his nipples, humping my thigh with each little twist. Fuck, could I make him come like this? Would he let me if I could?

I hadn’t expected him to be so responsive, but even the lightest touch had him gasping.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Wait, wait. Petit feu, I’m going to embarrass myself and come too fast.” Hetook my hand and brought it to the tent in his trousers. It was soaked.

“I would be flattered if you did.”

He blinked at me, then grinned, sunny to my storm cloud. “Yes, but I have plans. I want to ride you, to come on you. Don’t deprive me of that.”

I wanted to tell him we didn’t need to stop. We had all night if he wanted. But he was also older than me, and I had no idea how quickly he would want to escape once we were done. I had my rules, but I was sure he had some of his own.

“Take your pants off,” I said.

He nodded, leaning back to go for his zipper and button. Before he freed himself, he pressed his palm over his bulge. “May I undress you?”

There was no reason to hesitate now, so I didn’t. “Yes. Then help me sit up against the pillows so you can jump on my dick.”

He threw his head back with a laugh, then surged down, shoving his tongue in my mouth. I nibbled and sucked, scraping my teeth over his lips before he pulled back. The tips of his ears were cherry-blossom pink, and I wanted to bite them, to see if they were as warm as they looked.

But he gave me no time. Instead, he pulled all the way off, then shimmied out of his black trousers and white briefs, showing himself off. His cock was as impressive as the rest of him. It was shorter than mine but fatter, uncut, and so wet at the tip.

He squeezed his hand around it, then rocked into his fist, his foreskin sliding heavily back and forth.

I grunted, my own dick kicking, dribbling inside of my boxers.

“Please. Let me do that. I need to touch you.” I flushed. Since when did I beg?

He didn’t seem bothered. He gave a firm nod, then let himself go and dropped to his knees with a heavy thud. Fuck, he looked so good there with his puffy, red mouth and his hazy eyes. I wanted to tell him that, to guide his mouth toward me, but I watched instead.

He went for my shoes first, perfunctory and matter-of-fact as he removed them. He didn’t spend time lingering on my feet as he tugged away my socks. He went for my jeans next, a careful tug of a button, a slide of a zipper, and then he had them and my boxers to my knees. They caught the way they always did on the top of my orthotics, but with a little shimmy to each side, he freed them.

My clothes fell away, and then the room filled with the soft sound of Velcro. One, two. Then three and four. The moment he pulled the orthotics off my legs, my feet turned in, and my calves began to spasm.

He paid them no mind. He pressed hot, heavy palms to the top of my thighs and used my body to brace himself as he lifted into a higher crouch. “How can I have you?”

No one had ever asked me that before. I had never been a man they asked permission for. They’d simply…taken.

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