He was rather pleased with himself, sliding his body back up the length of mine, a wide, proud grin on his face. He raised an eyebrow and noted, “You were speaking Swahili there for a second.” He sat back on his feet, cupping the front of his shorts with an expectant smirk. “Now what are we gonna do about this thing?”
I didn’t wait to be asked twice. I threw him onto his back and barely made with the preliminaries. I may have landed a few kisses down his torso on the way to his shorts, reaching in and pulling him out. I know the typical Blowjob 101 Handbook recommends starting with some ice-cream-cone maneuvers, but I didn’t bother with such trivialities. I opened my jaw over that thing and took him as far as my mouth would allow, sliding my lips back up as I suctioned my cheeks, gripping him with my hand at the base.
“What the… Wha—Fuck! Lay!”
Ha! I repeated the motion, and Trip almost floundered off the chaise. I saw his fingers in a white-knuckle grip against the cushion, felt his hips rising to match the movements of my mouth. He was hard as a rock, that beautiful, magical limb of his pointing north like a sundial. I estimated it to be close to six o’clock.
My body was still Jell-O, but I guess I had some strength left in my mouth. I worked that thing with more determination than a shop-vac on Tool Time.
Every downstroke of my hand was closely followed by my lips; every suck on the way up had him begging for mercy. My other hand wrapped around to mind the stepchildren—You. Must. Mind. The Stepchildren—and the groan he let out just then made me want to high-five myself.
He clenched his teeth, sputtering out a string of half-words and addressing our Lord and savior in a most sacrilegious way before letting out with a booming growl as he lurched, practically folding in half over me as he shot to the back of my throat, his throbbing cock pulsing against my tongue.
That’s when I remembered I wasn’t a swallower and had to pull a Blink 182 naked run for the outdoor bar sink. Classy.
I washed up and rinsed out, then wrapped myself in a towel. I darted into the house to get dressed and check on dinner, then came back outside to Trip, who’d managed to pull up his shorts before passing out in the sun. I took a moment to appreciate the dazzling god lying there. He was so beautiful and perfect, even while practically snoring away like an actual mortal. It was hard to remember that he was, in fact, human. That gorgeous crop of golden hair, that chiseled body, those inviting, full lips just begging to be kissed… Damn. I’m so wrong. Please disregard what I just said about him being human.
I went in the house to get dinner finished and plated. By the time I brought everything out, he was awake and doing laps in the pool. You’d think by looking at him that he was just born that beautiful. And he was. Genes definitely were very generous to that man. But the truth was, he worked really hard to look that good. A body like that doesn’t come naturally. Even back in high school, hockey kept him in shape during the winter and jogging kept him fit the rest of the year. I stood there for a moment and watched him, pushing himself to go faster, harder. Testing his body to its limit. I knew he must’ve spent a fair amount of time in his private gym downstairs—so I apologize if I’m shattering any myths about him right here—because no one looks that good by accident.
He hauled himself out of the water, gave a shake to his head, and dried off with a towel before throwing on an Atari T-shirt and meeting me at the table. I’d made a London broil and a mesclun salad with some new potatoes dressed in a dill vinaigrette and a side basket of “homemade” biscuits to round it out. (Okay, fine. They were from a can.) He appraised the spread on the table and gave me an enthusiastic, “Wow, this looks great!”
Then the sick bastard announced that he was heading inside to grab the ketchup.
He came out, the bottle swinging triumphantly from his fingers as I warned, “You are not putting ketchup on that meat.”
He just ignored me, singing “You’re So Vain” as he slathered a dollop on the side of his plate.
“Ummm… wrong song, fucktard.”
I was stunned, watching as he sliced off a hunk of London Broil and dipped it into the glob before looking right into my eyes—a victorious gleam in his—as he chewed.
“I don’t know if we can stay together anymore,” I busted. “Ketchup on steak? That just might be a dealbreaker.”
Chapter 16
SHOW ME
The next morning, I had barely opened my eyes when Trip came busting through the door whistling some unrecognizable tune, and I couldn’t quite find it in me to raise my head yet. Even though I rarely slept-in, it still normally took me a few minutes to ease into my morning. But it looked as though Trip was apparently an even earlier riser than me.
Based on that circumstance, our future together did not look promising.
“’Morning.”
I rolled over at his greeting and saw him grinning ear to ear, holding a mug of coffee and wearing nothing but a pair of cotton PJ bottoms. Yum.
I supposed I could overlook the morning person problem.