Page 38 of A Totally Platonic Thing
“Face down on the bed, no jerking off,” he said. “Pretty simple, Chris.”
“I wasn’t jerking off,” I gasped, and tried to wriggle under him. I couldn’t move, but my ass pressed harder against his groin, and now I could feel that hard bulge behind the damp, rough denim. Feel it almost where I wanted it, but not quite.
Lucas huffed, his hot exhale over the shell of my ear making me shiver. “Yeah, right. Semantics. I happen to know you don’t need to actually touch your dick to get off.”
I didn’t even know what to say to that. I couldn’t possibly say anything to that. Hearing Lucas say it was so much infinitely hotter than me thinking it that my brain shorted out.
He lifted up and off of me, pulling his arm out from under and straddling my thighs. I wanted this, so much, I wanted it, but I still shoved up on my arms, panicking a little with my face pushed into the bedding.
That lasted two seconds, because Lucas grabbed both of my arms, pulled them behind me, and pinned my wrists at the small of my back.
And then he stopped.
And I went still, breathing so hard I’d started to gasp. He had me totally at his mercy, and I couldn’t do anything but wait.
But I was me, and I might be smart but my mouth was smarter. Or dumber. Both.
“Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?” I slurred into the comforter.
Lucas’s hand tightened around my wrists.
“Anything I fucking want,” he growled.
Oh, shit.
Chapter Nine
Lucas
Now that you have me, what are you going to do with me?
Anything I wanted. That had shut him up, at least, but I hadn’t really answered his question—for him or for me.
I had no fucking clue what to do with him.
I had him laid out under me, pinned and naked and squirming, and I had no. Idea. What to do. Because everything I could do, everything I could imagine, seemed so fucking wrong.
So I shifted my hands, locking my left one around his wrists, and brought my right hand up and spanked him hard, the smack reverberating through the room and going straight to my dick.
Chris yelped and jumped, and a red mark bloomed on his right cheek.
Fuck.
He looked like one of the Renaissance paintings I’d been forced to pretend to appreciate in my art history requirement class freshman year.
Seeing him there, all pale skin, and the lines and curves of his muscles and his slender back—and that incredible, fucking indescribable ass—made me appreciate it a hell of a lot more than a quarter’s worth of a bored TA droning on about light and shadow had.
No wonder those pervs had wanted to paint naked guys all the time if their models looked like this.
I spanked him again, on the left side this time, and had to choke back a groan as his ass jiggled and flexed. Chris did groan, a little noise that sounded more like arousal than pain.
Now I was the perv, holding my roommate down on my bed, raging hard-on straining against my jeans and my mouth dry with—want. Fuck.
With pure, achingwant.
Because watching him spread his cheeks and show me his hole, watching him fucking finger it right in front of me, stretching it open, had made me think about fucking it. With my own fingers. With my big cock that’d open it up a lot more, until that soft pink flesh stretched to the limit around me.
Chris let out a pained squeak, and I startled and realized I’d tightened my grip on his wrists until my knuckles went white.
