Page 94 of Ambiguous
“Fucking hell, Sam.”
I keep going. “That okay?” I whisper between sucks.
“Yes, absolutely. Please.”
I love it when his British politeness comes out. I can tell by the way he’s straining that he’s close to coming, and I keep up the rhythm, wanting him to release, wanting him to let it all out.
But I also really want him to fuck me. “Where’s a condom?” I ask.
“In the car.”
“Fuck. That’s where the ones I brought are, too.”
“I can’t wait,” Jules says. “I’ll fuck you later.”
I nod over and over. “Do whatever you want.”
Pulling back from my caresses, he glances over at the kitchen and points to a bottle of olive oil on the counter. “I love what we’re doing, but I really want to try something. Can we use that?”
“Yes.”
With his pants half down, he gets up and hops over to grab it, then comes back, pulling me up to my feet. He kisses me deeply, then pushes me back around so I’m facing the door again.
“Dunno what this is called,” he says, “but until we get a condom, I’ll fuck your thighs.”
“Yes,” I hiss.
Looking over my shoulder, I watch as he pours oil on his hands and then rubs his cock. With both of our pants around our feet, he slides his dick between my legs and then uses his slick fingers to stroke my cock.
As he thrusts faster and faster, jerking me off in time, I’m lost in pleasure, Play-Doh in his hands. He groans, getting the friction he needs, and between his intensity and my need for him, I release so hard I hit my own face, tasting the salty-sweet fluid. He keeps pumping, coming hard, then collapses onto me.
He holds me to him as we catch our breath. Then I look around and burst out laughing.
“What?” he asks.
“Look where we are. Again, we didn’t even make it two feet into the place.”
There’s that wicked grin. I’m coming to love that expression on him. “That just leaves us more to explore later.” He stands back and pulls me with him, shoving my pants the rest of the way off. I toe out of my shoes and shuck off my shirt. He does the same and then grabs me for a hug.
“Come get cleaned up,” I tell him. “I’ll feed you. Then let’s see what happens.”
“Deal.”
* * *
After showering and bringing in the groceries, I pour us each a glass of water and ask, “What would you like to eat?”
Jules has been busy opening up every cabinet and drawer, inspecting the contents left by years and years of use of a family cabin. He’s currently looking at the bookshelves, which feature a few decades’ worth of bestsellers, mysteries, thrillers, and romance novels. With a hum, he pulls one out and inspects it. “Well, Mr. Stone, can you cook?”
“Yes. Can you?”
He shrugs and wanders to a cabinet that’s nothing but board games. Clue. Life. Monopoly. Scrabble. “Eh. I can do some things. Like toast and tea.”
I smirk. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
Julian Hill, barefoot, wearing only a pair of sweatpants, joins me in the redone but still vintage kitchen. His pants are so low I see his hip bones, and all his ink is on display. His hair is chaotic, and his lips are kiss-stung. He looks thoroughly debauched, which is appropriate, because I know what we’ve just done. But he also has this feline grace. The same way he is on stage, able to always land on his feet with everything going the right way, weaving through the equipment and other musicians without ever tripping.
Even here, in an unfamiliar place, it’s as if he’s always lived here. As if this were his home. As if a mountain cabin is a normal place for a rock star to be.
