Page 124 of Go Luck Yourself
Loch analyzes the image again. Traces his thumb over the boy’s silhouette.
He replaces his thumb with his mouth.
“Stand up straight.” That commanding tone brooks no room for argument.
My chest releases, another gasp, this one of relief. If rawness is acid, then Loch’s mouth is soothing the burn.
I drop back against the wall, hands still up, and there’s only his mouth, that tongue, tasting every divot and swell of ink on my thigh until my trembling is from anticipation, not overstimulation. He works slowly, savoringly, covering the whole span of skin before his face presses into the very spot I imagined, the swath where the tree canopy curves up the inside of my leg. He holds there and breathes, the bristle of his facial hair rough, and I didn’t know such a simple act could be so transportive.
He peers up over my body, leonine eyes and that wicked, cocky smirk.
“There ya are, Kris,” he says, and I think he means to say it louder, but it comes out crooned soKrisceases to be my name and becomes an endearment.
My mind clears entirely as he takes my cock in his mouth.
Immediate tight suction. Wet, intense heat.
He holds for a moment, tasting, adjusting, and I whine pathetically, hips rocking in the slightest thrust. It’s a trigger; his hand starts working mercilessly at my base, pumping with his mouth in perfect, knee-weakening synchronization.
Oh, this is not going to last long, like,at all,fuck fuckfuck—
I try to control my breathing. Try to think about literally anything else. Like the paint in his hair. That color green. Think about paint and—not what he’s doing with his throat—
My hands are fisted against each other, obediently above head, and the only things coming out of my mouth are pleading susurrations for more, for less, for everything.
He pulls back, stroking me slowly, a glow in his eyes, teasing pleasure. And I almost disintegrate right then, at that expression on his face and how it’s targeted at me, forme.
“Look at you, Kris.” His eyes drag over me again, heavier this time, pupils dark and predatory and visceral. “So sexy standing there, letting me play with you. So fuckinggoodfor me.”
His strokes increase, faster, barreling me closer and closer—
“Loch.” I can’t get out more than pinched, croaked noises. “If you—I’m going to—”
He shoves to his feet, keeping me in hand, and plants his other on the wall next to me. That unspoken statement of his control—that I would stay pinned to the wall like this, splayed out, while he’s almost leisurely in his stance—is everything I never knew I wanted, to have given myself over to this.
“Too—” I writhe and gasp, all liquid groans. “Too soon.”
He nudges my arm to make space next to my head, and his lips go to my ear. The barest brush of his tongue on the outer shell. “Boyo, what makes you think I’d be satisfied to only see you come once?”
I stop.
And let those words sink in.
Those voracious, beating words.
“For all you put me through,” he purrs, hand shuttling over my dick, twisting at the head, lubed by his saliva and my own precum as the edge barrels closer and closer, “you can bet that hot ass of yours that I’ll make you pay. I’m gonna turn you into a sated, sweaty heap on my studio floor.”
My brain splits in half.
Half again.
I’m shredding into pieces.
I find one last flicker of composure squirming through me. “You put me through hell too, you son of a bitch.” And then, “You think my ass is hot?”
He chuckles, deep, possessive. “You’re gonna come in my mouth, Kris.”
And he drops to his knees again.
