Page 14 of Softer Than Stone
Awareness shot through me, and before I could control it, my cock swelled further, throbbing against the hard muscle of his leg. My breath caught. I tried to shift away subtly, but the motion only made things worse.
Chris’s eyes dropped, his gaze drifting down my body. Heat flared in his golden eyes, slow and intense. He didn’t say a word for a long moment, just looked, and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest.
“Chris, I—” I started, scrambling for an apology.
“Give me your hand,” he said, his voice quiet but filled with a rough command that sent a shiver down my spine.
I froze, staring at him. The air between us was thick, tension bubbling just under the surface, ready to snap. Slowly, I lifted my hand and placed it in his.
His fingers curled around mine, warm and sure, and he guided me downwards, under the sheet. He moved slowly, giving me plenty of time to pull back if I wanted to. I didn’t.
When my palm brushed against his cock, thick and hot, I swallowed hard. My brain short-circuited, and all I could do was hold him, feel the solid weight of him against my hand.
“Chris,” I whispered, his name a mix of reverence and desperation.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing that mattered, stole my breath.
I yanked the sheet back, exposing him fully, and tugged his boxers down. His cock sprang free, impressive and perfect. I wasn’t one to focus on size, but Chris was all thick length and weight, and my mouth watered at the sight.
“Off,” he said, his voice rough with desire, and his gaze flicked to my boxers.
I didn’t hesitate, pushing them down and kicking them off. The way he groaned, low and appreciative, sent a thrill through me.
Before I could act on the desperate urge to take him in my mouth, he grabbed me, his hand firm on the back of my neck, and pulled me into a kiss. His lips were soft but demanding, and his tongue teased mine until I was dizzy.
When he broke the kiss, I barely had time to catch my breath before he shifted me effortlessly, his strength undeniable. He spun me around, pulling me into a 69 position.
I didn’t have time to be self-conscious before his mouth was on me, hot and wet and sending jolts of pleasure through my body.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasped, my hands gripping his hips for balance.
I returned the favour, taking him into my mouth as best as I could. He groaned around me, the vibrations pushing me closer to the edge.
Tentatively, I let one hand drift lower, brushing against the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. I hesitated, unsure, but when he shifted his hips, opening for me, I pressed a spit-slick finger inside.
He moaned, the sound wrecked and beautiful, and I couldn’t get enough… of him, his arse, this moment. I sucked hard as I drove one, then two fingers inside his channel. He gripped my fingers. Fuck, with Chris around my cock, I’d be in heaven given half the chance.
He gripped my hips, yanking me deeper and so far into his throat, I saw stars. I shuddered, my body trembling while I tried to focus enough to make him come undone. Sucking my cheeks in, I went for the kill shot. I pulled him into my mouth, held my breath, and swallowed around his length.
Chris tensed, gripping me so hard and perfectly, I’d wear his bruises.
When he came, spilling hot and thick into my mouth, his body went pliant against mine. Still sucking me down, his movements slow but thorough, he tugged my balls, sending bright relief into my vision as I came long and hard, shooting ribbons of cum down his convulsing throat.
We collapsed side by side, breathing heavily, our limbs tangled.
I stared at him, dazed and completely wrecked. “Chris,” I said softly, “I think I need to call my manager.”
His brow quirked. “Oh?”
I grinned, brushing a hand over his chest as I turned myself around to be closer to his face. “I was supposed to do a stock take today, but spending the day in bed with you sounds a hell of a lot better.”
His laugh rumbled through me, low and warm, and I knew I’d made the right choice.
“So,”Chris began, leaning back in his chair and wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin, “who taught you to cook? What made you fall in love with it?”
I didn’t answer right away, too caught up in watching him. His plate was nearly clean—a testament to the barramundi I’d pan seared with lemon myrtle butter, served alongside a roasted beet and macadamia salad and a pepperberry-infused damper roll.
He ate like it was the first time he’d tasted food, his every movement deliberate. The way his fork lifted the last flake of fish to his mouth, or how his tongue darted out to catch a stray dropof butter clinging to his bottom lip—it was foreplay on a level I’d never experienced before.
