Page 28 of The Moon & His Tides
But here I was, trapped on a table, nearly ruined by the simple clasp of his workingman’s palm around my swollen flesh.
“Stroke it,” I demanded, gathering the tattered remnants of my control to issue my imperious order.
The bastard grinned, shuffled closer to hide me from anyone potentially walking up the path back to the house, and gave me one strong stroke from root to tip. It wasn’t private enough. Normally, I’d never mess around with something so potentially catastrophic to my career as a public handjob from a man, but something about Sebastian scrambled my senses. I tipped my head back as I succumbed to the pleasure searing through me.
“Like that?” he asked, but it wasn’t innocent.
No, this bastard knew what it was like to be played with because he’d had countless women play with him and countless women to play with himself. Just because I was his first man didn’t mean he’d lost all his sexual confidence.
Yet something ached in me to know he was doing this with me, for me, even though I was being a surly cad. Something that went soft inside my chest knowing he trusted me to take him over to this unexplored side of his sexuality.
I’d never had a virgin before, and the honor of it was hard to ignore.
“Tighter,” I ground out through my teeth, then hissed as he obeyed.
It was difficult to know what to watch, his tanned grip on my straining cock and the way he smeared my precum over the tipor that ridiculously handsome face with the dark brows knitted together in concentration over molten yellow eyes.
“I’m going to make you come for me,” he told me in a low rumble I felt strike my bones like a tuning fork.
I was already close, almost unmanned by the simple grasp of his hand.
“It’ll be messy,” I warned because I’d always come copiously.
“Mmm,va bene. I remember,” he murmured, adding his other hand to the game he was playing with my dick.
He twisted one this way and the other that on the up stroke.
My brain whited out at the edges.
“Yeah,” he encouraged, watching my face with stark hunger. “I never knew pleasuring a man could be so powerful. To hold you in my hand and watch you quake… I have a wet spot on my trousers.”
My eyes darted to his black pants. He shifted, angling his hips forward so the strain of his erection and the wet spread of his leaking precum caught the light from the lanterns hanging in the tree overhead.
“Fuck,” I cursed, undone by the sight. My head fell forward onto his hard chest and the scent of him scorched through my nose down to my gut. “I’m going to come.”
“Do it,” he urged, moving fast, panting almost as hard as I was. “Come all over my hand. I want to see you make a mess of yourself.”
That was it.
That filthy order uttered in hot, lightly Italian-accented English set me off like a rocket.
My spine tightened, and I exploded in pleasure so acute it was almost agonizing. I clamped a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder as I shook and came and came all over his hand, all over my shirt and open trousers.
The only sound in the aftermath was the ragged rasp of my breath, the faint pound of Sebastian’s heart beneath his breastbone where my cheek was pressed, and the din of the party in the house behind us. As I slowly came back to myself, the closeness of our positions and the odd sanctity of the silence induced that old panic to take hold. Just as I tensed to move away, Sebastian shocked me.
His free hand moved up to run fingers through my rumpled locks, smoothing them back from my damp forehead.
Such a simple act, a sweet one especially from such a big, bold man.
It eviscerated me nearly as much as the orgasm.
I tore myself from his hold, noting he let me go easily, and stepped out from between his body and the table. I needed space like I needed air.
When I saw Sebastian dominate the stage at Finborough Theatre, I knew I had to have him. I would have done it for Savannah anyway, maybe, despite our vow to stop for a time. My wife and I liked to play, and it had been too long since our last dalliance. But sitting at the front of the theatre, enraptured by the way the great, big Italian man with expressive hands and seemingly 24-karat-gold eyes moved across the space and owned it, I’d felt viciously compelled to own him for myself. I’d never been the kind of Dominant who liked to collar his subs or mark them with spit, cum, or teeth, but my brain conjured images of that black hair caught tight in my fist as I craned his head back to bite at his neck, paint the skin above a thick leather collar with bruises as plum-purple as his lips.
I should have known then that the ferocity of my lust wasn’t safe.
But I’d never reacted to a man the way I did to him in these last few furtive moments caught together like fish tangled and flapping in the net of our shared desire.
