Page 24 of Dangerous Pursuit
Liam's cock twitches in my palm as I finally catch a steady rhythm, getting better, feeling more confident with each stroke.
A fresh wave of heat rolls down my groin as Liam shifts again, reaching out and putting his large palm right on my dick, pressing, massaging me over my clothes.
I let out a staggered moan, and buck my hips forward, pushing myself harder against his touch, chasing that sweet relief I've been craving for so long. I relish in it, cherish it for far too long before I realize the movements of my hand have become sloppy, chopped, lacking rhythm. And even though it would be so easy, feel so amazing to just let myself get lost in the sensation, there's one thing I crave even more—to give Liam the best fucking orgasm he's ever had, one he'll remember for years to come. Maybe it's really about him, or maybe I just have something to prove to him, to myself. It matters little—tonight I'm a man on a mission.
I allow myself one more buck of my hips, my head spinning as Liam's firm palm twists around the head of my cock, before I squeeze his shoulder, my fingers biting into the unyielding flesh. "Don't," I say, part of me cursing the other part for it.
He stops what he's doing, his hand still groping me, filling me with heat that could challenge molten lava.
Thankfully, Liam doesn't oppose, because God knows my resolve is running thin right now, and removes his hand, taking away his heat and the last of my sanity.
I count back from three, breathing heavily through my nose, trying to regain control over my body before I zero-in on his cock again, its girth sitting perfectly in my closed fist and resume my mission, my entire body growing rigid, determined to deliver.
I stroke him with urgency now, as if my hand works independently from my brain that struggles to catch up. And Liam?
Liam's…fighting.
Fighting for control, like his entire life depends on maintaining it in this very moment.
He grips the sides of his thighs so hard veins on the top of his hands are showing, his jaw clenched, nostrils flared, and he remains almost perfectly still, as if he's trying to stop himself from giving in to my touch with all the might he possesses.
As if letting go would somehow make him lose whatever game he's playing with himself.
I switch to fast, tiny strokes on the plump head of his cock, my palm dancing effortlessly around his flesh, using my other hand to massage the back of his neck, the muscles growing more tense with every passing second.
And now, it's a battle of wills.
Careful as to not let go of his cock, I push on the middle of his chest with my free hand, simultaneously stepping forward. Liam catches on what I’m doing, and seconds later we’re seated on the leather sofa, mere two inches of space between us.
"Liam?" I rasp, switching to full strokes, giving his shaft a firm squeeze on every descent.
"Hmm?" He struggles to talk, teeth still gritted, making his jawline even more prominent, and his body is all but shaking.
"Look at me." He doesn't. His head turns half an inch toward me before resuming its original position. He isn't just fighting with me. He's fighting with himself, too. "Look at me," I repeat, making sure not to sound any more pushy, any more stern than the first time.
Finally, he does, his neck twisting slowly, not without pausing. It's not until he's fully facing me that the muscles around his eyes relax and he finally opens them, heavy gaze meeting mine.
A lot of things happen then, all at the same time, and it's sheer luck that keeps me from exploding and busting my nut, untouched from the imagery alone.
His mouth falls half-open, and he takes a sharp, urgent exhale, as if he had denied himself oxygen for the past century. His head falls back, ever so slightly, and his rock solid neck loses its unnatural firmness, the tips of my fingers dipping in slightly, like he's actually made of human flesh. His right hand sits steadily on his thigh, but he moves his left hand, blindly patting the minuscule piece of unoccupied leather between us, until he locates my knee and squeezes.
He lets go.
His hips start rolling upward, his rhythm matching my own to the beat, his now impossibly swollen cock pumping into my fist so hard his balls push against my finger.
And then, there's a moan, the first real moan he gives me, so deep and so vibrant it penetrates my core.
It's like he simultaneously loses control in one aspect and desperately seeks to gain it elsewhere.
I let him. I squeeze my fist around him so tight I never want to feel a grip like that on myself and keep my hand still, allowing him to go at his own pace, to find his release on his own accord if he so chooses. If that's what he really needs.
Because Liam is a work of art, and art is meant to be looked at, felt, experienced, cherished. Not fucked around with.
Seconds later, I'm proven right.
"Oh fuck," Liam roars, his head snapping forward, eyes squeezing shut, denying me the chance to look into them, to read him at this particular moment. He bares his teeth in a wild grimace and his right hand shoots up to wrap around mine, making my grip around him twice as hard as before, something I thought impossible.
One, two, three urgent bucks of his hips and his entire body convulses, every muscle twitching, tensing and relaxing in random intervals as he comes, his cock pulsing against my palm, come shooting out of him in bursts, landing on his hand atop mine.
