Page 88 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Okay, Squirt. We’ll head home soon. Just…give Gage a minute.”
I glance at Gage, my confidence reappearing in the form of a coy grin. “Or more like five.”
30
ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND GOOD HEAD
CALISTA
Getting Teague to bed was surprisingly quick and seamless. Thanks to the heaping amounts of sugar we gave him, he crashed pretty hard. He probably—hopefully—won’t wake up in the middle of the night. If he walks in on something he’s not supposed to see, I’ll personally pay for his therapy bills.
And now I have Gage all to myself. After a long, painful ride home, I sobered up enough to regain my bearings and form a plan of action. I’m not going to give in so easily. At least, not if I can help it. That sadistic side of me demands the wheel this time, and I’m going to have him on his knees so I can see how pretty he is when he begs.
Gage peers around the dark corner to make sure the coast is clear, forfeiting a sigh of relief. “God, that was close. I don’t think Teague would ever recover if he saw us playing tonsil hockey. I mean, I saw my parents groping each other once and it was truly scarring?—”
I cut Gage off by pushing him up against the adjoining wall of the kitchen, drawing out an unmanly squeak in the process.
“Gage, shut up,” I growl, my palm pressed against the rapidthudding of his heart—which only quickens under my prolonged touch.
He’s staring at me with a measure of fear in his eyes, and blood floods to the surface of his cheeks, lightening his skin in a hue of pink. I take my index finger and drag it down his torso to the hard cut of his muscled stomach, then hook it into the loop of his pants and pull him closer to me. I can already feel him filling out his pants with his erection, and his turgid length obtrudes against my belly, the weight of him incurring more liquid desire to saturate my already-damp panties.
I palm his generous bulge, making him hiss between gritted teeth. “You had your fun earlier, but that’s not how this night is going to go. I’m going to be the one in control, and you’re going to be the one beggingmeto touchyou. Do I make myself clear?”
Gage nods wordlessly, the tendons in his neck quivering, the sturdiness of the wall the only thing keeping him upright. A rare nervousness rules his expression, but it’s combated with gut-wrenching anticipation.
I lightly pinch his cock through the material of his pants, and a shudder shimmies through his body as he throws his head back against the wall.
“It hurts, doesn’t it? All that pressure building inside, that painful strain in your cock, that insatiable ache in your balls. All you can think about is coming so hard you can’t see straight, right?”
“Fuck, yes,” he groans, a drop of briny sweat rolling down his temple, teeth scuffing his bottom lip until blood beads and congeals on cracked skin.
I slowly unzip his fly, but not far enough to let his dick spring out. Even swathed and safely contained, thatthingis still intimidating. “You want me to make you feel better? You want me to take your cock out, rub it until you can’t take any more,and then shove it down my throat?” I drawl, all feminine wiles and “innocent” bats of lashes.
“Would give anything to fuck that gorgeous throat of yours, Spitfire. I’ll beg on my knees if I have to.”
“That’s a start.” I pull Gage’s pants down to his thighs, smacked with the droolworthy sight of that carved Adonis belt and the sexy strip of hair underneath his navel. His cock’s practically bursting at the seams, a sizeable spot of pre-cum seeping through the front of his boxers.
“Take your dick out,” I command, tracing my fingernail along that plunging V-line, savoring the way his stomach jumps—the way I hold the power of his orgasm in an expertly placed touch.
I’m expecting a slow buildup of obedience, a measured acceptance of defeat because of his God-like ego, but he fumbles with his underwear, hooking his fingers in the elastic band and pulling them down to blunt the pressure.
His long, forearm-thick cock stands at attention before me, a red, angry hue from this roulette game of teasing, curved just slightly to the right and drooping a little low from the heaviness of its own weight. His piercings glisten underneath the naked bulb in the kitchen, same with the milky dribble of pre-cum pearling at the tip, and little rivers of blue-grey veins feed into one larger one stemming along the underside of his shaft. The perfect detonation point.
I take an exploratory finger and follow the dominant vein, keeping the pressure featherlight, and Gage’s legs collapse for a second. A loud whimper gets caught somewhere in the back of his throat, as if he’s too proud to vocalize it but too weak to keep it confined to his chest.
“Sensitive?” I ask, ending my torturous trek at his sodden slit, where I swirl my digit around his arousal and electrify every nerve ending in the bulging head like a touch-activated sensor.
“You have no idea.” His voice is hoarse, his dick twitching and oozing more pre-cum onto the pads of my fingers, his thighs still shaking of their own volition. I can smell the ripeness of his musk, even the tinge of sweat underlying it, and my mouth waters to taste the saltiness of his cum, to drink it down until I’ve drained every drop from him.
With saliva clotting my mouth, I purse my cheeks and gather a wad of it on my tongue, parting my lips to allow a string of drool to lower to the ruddy tip, where it hits its target with an obscene splat.
“Rub my spit in, Gage. Rub it in with your cum like the good boy you are, then start stroking yourself.”
Another little whine. Another little wordless concession.
He takes his thumb and begins to mix my saliva with his spend, priming the head with a thin gloss of lubrication. There’s not enough spit to coat much of his length, but there’s enough to wet his palm so he can gain some traction.
“Calista,” he groans, struggling to keep his eyes open, just starting to stimulate himself with some half-hearted pumps, aslicknoise pervading the kitchen. He performs every rub slowly, as if going too fast will augment the flowering pain.
