The Other Man(10)

I knew I was good in bed.  I was fit, flexible, and adventurous, but with Heath, all I’d managed to do was hold on for the ride.  And come.  Repeatedly.

The force of nature I was currently worrying over had gone into the shower exactly one second after he’d finished getting us both off.  He apparently didn’t like to wear his sex around, not even to sleep.

Would he even stay to sleep?  It was barely noon.  I guessed he’d be leaving as soon as he was done with his shower.

I could expect nothing else from this whole crazy thing, but I felt tender (not just my body) about it all.  I’d never done casual sex.

It was perhaps an acquired taste.  One I wasn’t planning to acquire.

I was still lying there (nearly exactly how he’d left me after f*cking my brains out) when he came back out of my bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, his mind-boggling body still slightly damp.

The look on his face had me losing my breath.

He dropped the towel.

My mind was on a very specific part of him, one that should not be looking quite so eager after our earlier activities, as he approached the bottom of the bed.

Without a word, he bent, grabbing my sheet, and pulling it slowly.

It surprised me enough that I made an embarrassing little noise and tried to hold onto my only covering.

“Let go,” he growled.

God, he was scary.  Why did that do such delicious things to my body?

I dropped the sheet.

He tugged it off, then snagged first one of my ankles, then the other, his shoulders and arms flexing as he dragged me down the bed.  When he’d finished dragging, he started spreading, pulling my legs wide apart.

He just stared at my sex for the longest time, his gaze so hot that my hips started squirming restlessly.

I glanced down at him.  He was fully aroused, his heavy cock pulsing.

Sore or not, sated or not, I wanted it again more desperately than ever.

Finally, he let go of my ankles, grabbing my wrists instead and pulling me to sit up, my splayed legs jolting together.  He perched a foot snug at my hip, burying both of his hands in my hair.

I licked my lips and stared.  He’d brought me within a few inches of his eager cock.  I didn’t have to guess what he wanted.

I leaned forward, looked up to meet his eyes boldly, and tongued his tip.

He cursed and surged against me.

Keeping solid eye contact, I sucked his thick, plush head between my lips.

I had to break eye contact soon enough as he pushed deeper, and his jagged breaths became the only thing in the room louder than the sounds of my busy, sucking mouth and my milking, stroking hands.

There was no polite conversation about whether or not I swallowed, but as I felt his balls draw up tight, his orgasm close, I pushed back to suck at his tip, hands working him, my eyes on his face.

That was one thing that had stood out to me from the last few rounds.  I loved to watch his face as his eyes went unfocused and wild, all of the coldness leaving them.  I watched it happen again, relishing the sight.

He stroked my hair after he’d finished, my tongue still laving his tip, his eyes directed on me again, cold again, but admiring, at least.

After he finally pulled away, I lay back on the bed, not sure if I wanted to get off or pass out.

Without a word, he moved to my dresser across the room, unerringly going for my hidden vibrator, knowing which drawer it was in, exactly as though he knew just where to look, like he’d done it before.

My aroused, smitten brain didn’t linger on that, focused more on him and what he was about to do to me than on the things about him that should trouble me.

As he pulled the thing out, though, I managed to find my voice for something, at least, “Not that,” I said faintly.  It was an intense toy.  “I’m a little sore for that.”

He raised his brows, looking fascinated by the notion.  He dropped the vibrator back in the drawer, hand going for his randy cock.  He was already semi-hard again and looked in danger of easily losing the semi part of that.  “Too sore for this, too, I take it?”

I bit my lip.  I really wanted that again, but I was sore.  I nodded regretfully, watching him handle himself casually and thinking that it was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

His white teeth flashed at me in a smile that was more sinister than happy.  “I’ve got just the thing.”

And he did.

My hands clawed into the sheets as he introduced me to the skill of his wicked tongue.  He lapped at my sex, making himself at home down there, soft and gentle in a way I hadn’t thought he had in him.

Something occurred to me as he made me come, yet again.

If he was as complicated of a man as he was a lover, I was in trouble.

He moved up my body, kissing my lips, his sex nudging between my legs.

All soreness was forgotten, by both of us, apparently, as he pushed himself into me.

He did recall it briefly, though, when he was buried nearly to the root.  “Too sore?” he murmured.

I bit his lower lip in answer, whimpering into his mouth as I didn’t feel coherent enough to talk.  He took it for the answer he wanted.

With a rough groan, he shoved himself home.

And then he was gone, as sudden as he’d come.

He never said goodbye.

I passed out and he left.