Page 7 of Lonely
I fisted his dark hair and sank the needle into his neck before he could thrash too hard.
A sharp hiss escaped his lips, followed by a string of curses. When I withdrew the needle, a pearl of blood formed on his skin.
Crouching beside him, I waited and watched.
“There’s a good boy,” I murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his brow. His chin finally dropped to his chest, and a heavy breath inflated his muscular frame. I patted his cheek too hard, but he was too far gone to lift his head.
Good. That was good.
The bead of blood finally gave up the fight and trailed down his corded neck, soaking into his collar.
“Such perfection.” The silky strands felt amazing between my fingers as I played with his dark hair. I’d never seen a man so beautiful and full of potential.
I rose to my knees and pressed my lips to the trail of blood, tasting it. All the while, his breathing remained deep and steady.
A groan escaped me as I swirled my tongue from his collarbone to the puncture wound. They said wine improved with age, but this young man tasted of youth and of things forbidden. I doubted he’d ever taste as ripe as he did right then.
Before I knew it, my hand slid up his thigh to cup his soft cock through the thin cotton. I tugged down the waistband and bit back a satisfied sound at the sight of him nestled between his spread thighs like a sleeping snake.
“You’re so perfect,” I murmured, shifting to settle between his legs. “So strong.”
His dark hair had fallen over his brows again, so I slid my fingers through the strands.
A low, unintelligible sound rose in his throat, and I quieted it with my lips on his.
“Yes,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over his stubbled jaw. “You’re my favorite patient, Mr. Carter.”
Voices drifted through the thin walls as a group of nurses passed by, but I was too mesmerized by the young man before me to feel the usual spike of annoyance at their endless chatter. No one here seemed to know how to do their job.
“What did you say?” I asked Carter as I pulled his pants down to his ankles and stroked my hands up his muscular, hairy thighs.
His muscle mass was impressive, every inch of his thighs carved and tense beneath my hands.
Rising to my feet, I circled the desk and opened the drawer.
My Polaroid camera sat at the very back, resting atop a thick envelope—images of former patients cataloged in private, preserved moments.
Still, something told me the man in front of me was remarkable. He wasn’t like the others.
I walked around the desk again and leaned against the edge, camera at the ready. With each click, it whirred in the silence, spitting out photographs.
I wafted them gently, all while studying him from head to toe.
He peeked at me through hooded lids, but he was too far gone to hold his head up for long. It slumped again, heavy with sedation.
Pushing off the desk, I grabbed his jaw and pressed my fingers into his cheeks to pry his mouth open. The cameraclicked and whirred. More photographs fell onto his lap and the floor, a sea of sexual sin.
I lowered the lens between his legs and photographed his flaccid cock.
He wasn’t even hard yet, and he was already a thick fucking handful.
I reached down and started to stroke him.
A groan rumbled from his chest.
I faltered mid-stroke, but the twitch of his hard length beneath my hand urged me on. I repeated the movement until he was fully erect and leaking precum.
It was time to snap more photographs. The prints stuck to the soles of my shoes as I circled his chair.
