Page 32 of Matteo's Mettle
Understanding dawns inside me and I feel stupid. “No.”
“So why would you assume I would reject you in the case of my having to safe word out because I don’t like the new experience?”
“I don’t know.”
He’s silent for a moment, and I breathe in the spicy scent of his cologne. “I think you do,” he tells me quietly.
I gnaw on my bottom lip. I’m terrified of rejection, that’s hardly a secret. And from the very start of this, I told him all my concerns about a potential relationship between us. “I suppose part of me still thinks I’m not good enough for you.”
London’s body tenses and he hugs me tighter. “I don’t know how to convince you that you’re wrong. But, if it helps, I sometimes doubt that I’m good enough for you, too.”
“Wait,” I sit up straighter, twisting in my chair to look at him in surprise, “what?”
He rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at his lips. His hand comes up to cup my bearded jaw, his thumb smoothing over the strip of skin of my cheekbone, just beneath my eye. “You’re fucking hot, Matt. You’re also successful, own your own home and are super sweet. And I’m a lot younger than you. I’m barely starting out in my career. I rent a crappy little apartment, drive a shitty little car…” he huffs out a breath that could almost be a short laugh, “and I wear lingerie. Pretty sure it looks ridiculous on a body like mine. I’m hardly a catch for a man like you.”
Blinking, I struggle to process his words. “You’re not serious.” London stays silent. “You’re also fucking hot,” I dispute his logic, ignoring his muttered admonishment about my cussing despite the fact that he started it, “and you’ve gone from a laborer to a planner in, what, a couple of years? So you’re successful in my opinion. Not that it matters where you are in your career. Not to me. Your age means jack shit to me, too, and-“
“Seriously, Matt, language,” he interrupts again, but with enough amusement that I know I’m still safe from punishment.
“And,” I continue on as though he didn’t cut me off, “I don’t care where you’re living as long as it’s safe. Besides, the only reason I own this place is because my dad left it to me. I didn’t make great life choices before Trent dumped me, y’know?”
I shake my head, realizing that I’m getting off topic before I continue, “Not the point.” Now I let my hands slide down his sides, my thumbs tucking into the waistband of his jeans, teasing the silky material they find underneath the denim. “Finally, Iloveyour panties. Just thinking about you in them gets me all hot and bothered. And if you wanted to try out camisoles or corsets or negligees or whatever-” grabbing his hand, I place it right over my hardening cock which is pushing against the cargo shorts I changed into after our friends left earlier “-thisis exactly what I think about that.”
His fingers tighten over my erection, an almost inaudible groan issuing from his lips. “Yeah?”
He’s usually so confident that this vulnerability -somehow even more obvious than it was on that first night we spent together- throws me for a loop at first. “Daddy,” I bring our foreheads together, “I told you. You’re perfect.”
London’s mouth is on mine before anything more can be said. Dinner is forgotten as our tongues twine together and our hands slip beneath shirts and undo the buttons and flies of our pants. Somewhere along the way, I’ve swiveled sideways in my seat so we’re facing each other properly, and London slips off his chair and sinks to his knees in front of me.
His large hands rest on my thighs, his calloused fingertips toying with the open waistband of my shorts. He looks up at me through thick, dark lashes, the blue of his irises having darkened with his desire. “Can I?”
Lifting my hips in a gesture of silent invitation, I nod.
He doesn’t need any further prompting and it’s not long before my shorts and underwear are tugged down my legs and thrown aside unceremoniously.
My cock stands at attention for him and I groan when the warmth of his palm wraps around it. London gives it a couple of light pumps before he leans forward and the sweet, wet heat of his mouth envelops the head.
He suckles teasingly, the hand that had gripped me now trailing light, tickling trails up and down my shaft and over my balls with the tips of his fingers. I want to buck my hips, but I know from experience that he’ll only pull off if I do.
London tongues the underside of the crown, putting pressure on my frenulum, driving circles into that sensitive spot with his deliciously devious muscle before licking back up and through the slit.
“Daddy,” I whine plaintively. “Please.”
He takes his wicked time, repeating his actions before slowly taking more of my cock into his mouth until he can’t go further. Then he drags back off as torturously slowly, sucking as he goes. These long, languid bobs of his head have me fighting the urge to fuck up into his mouth. My balls draw up and ache with the need to unload, but he’s not stimulating me enough to push me over the edge.
I’m a babbling mess of pleas and throbbing desire by the time he finally (fucking finally)wraps his hand around the base of my cock and takes pity on me, pumping with firm strokes and hollowing his cheeks. His other hand reaches for my balls, rolling and squeezing them, then moves further back, over the sensitive stretch of skin behind them and then to my needy hole where he slowly rubs his index finger around the rim.
The touch disappears, and I keen desperately, only for him to reach up and place that same finger at my lips. I suck it and his middle finger into my mouth, slicking both up as best I can. He groans around my dick, the vibrations traveling through me with frissons of bliss, then he removes those fingers from my mouth and sends them right back to where I want them the most.
I’m so far gone in the enjoyment of his ministrations that the first finger slips in with very little resistance. The second, lubed only with my spit, burns a bit as he stretches me, but it’s a good kind of burn and I shift, spreading my legs wider and leaning back in the chair to give him better access. It’s uncomfortable and my back won’t thank me for it, but right now I don’t care.
I reach out and grip the edge of the dining table when he crooks his fingers and finds my prostate with practiced accuracy.
“London,” I breathe. “Daddy. I’m so fucking close.”
He growls -actually growls- around my cock.
Oh. Right. Language. Whoops.
