Captured(67)

But no. No. That’s not happening. It’ll be fine. Something tells me that would be more than Derek can handle. Right now, at least.

I do my best to push those thoughts away, to stay positive. It’ll be fine. We’ll be more careful in the future. Turns out, though, that “the future” might be a little sooner than I anticipated. I shampoo my hair, rinse, lather conditioner in. Scrub myself, head to toe. Oh. Oh, god. Yeah, that’s a lot of come sluicing out of me, even after peeing. Keep washing, don’t think about it. I don’t even register the door opening, or the rings of the shower curtain scraping. All I’m aware of is the nearly scalding water on my back, and then hands on my waist. Lips on my clavicle. I smile and sigh, lick shower water off my lips and slide my arms around him, smooth my hands from his shoulders down to his ass and back up, tilt my head back and lean out of the stream, letting it hit him.

Mmmmm. He’s hard again. Already. Jesus, the man has, like, zero refractory period. Lucky, lucky me.

He groans low in his throat as I clasp my hands around him. Get him harder, get him ready. Then grab the shower gel and my purple scrubby-poof, get him soapy. Neck, shoulders, chest. His eyes close, and he lets me wash him. Back, thighs, ass. Pay special attention there, get him really clean. Smile up at him, love the way his wet hair is slicked back against his skull, the way water beads and drips down his chest.

Ooops, how did I get down here, on my knees in front of him? Wash him here, too. All over. Nudge his thighs apart and make sure his balls are extra clean. Scrub the poof up and down his cock, over the tip, all around. He’s staring down at me, eyes hooded, and I can see he’s half-hoping I’m about to do what I absolutely am about to do. Half-hoping, yet also clearly worried it’s just too good to be true. Scrub his length again, then cup my hands under the stream of water hitting his chest, splash him to rinse the soap off. Take his tightened sac in my palm and his cock in my other hand.

“Reagan?”

I tilt my head and look up at him. “Derek?”

“What—um, ahem—what are you doing?”

I plunge my fist down around him, then back up. Slide my palm over the thick, broad head, caress the opening with my thumb. He likes that a lot. He squirms, squeezes his eyes shut, and opens them again.

I shrug. “This.”

Stroke with a feather-light touch downward, and at the same time I part my lips and take him into my mouth. He tastes clean, like nothing but skin. As I lean forward to take him deeper into my mouth, my sopping-wet hair flops down around my face. His hands slide past my cheeks and gather my hair up. Piles it onto my head, tangling his fingers into the thick mass. Tugs, just a little, as I draw my mouth up around him. When I twist my fist around his girth and slide my touch up and down, up and down, faster and faster, bobbing on him, he lets out a sighing groan, and his grip in my hair tightens.

This is new. I’m not sure what to think, honestly.

Obviously, I’ve gone down more than a few times before now, but it was only with—I can’t think his name, won’t, not now, not in this situation—and he would hold as still as possible, hands on my shoulders, squeezing to let me know when he was close. He would let go quietly, a slight groan, a gentle nudge of his hips. He was…careful with me. Polite. Considerate.

Derek is different. He’s gripping my hair tightly enough that the roots at my scalp twinge, but it doesn’t quite hurt. He applies gentle pressure as he moves into my mouth. His hips flex, just a little. Not quite an actual thrust, but almost. And…I don’t mind it. It’s the same brand of I think it might be hot but I’m scared to give into it as my hesitant exploration of letting him touch my *.

Everything with Derek is different, a little scary, yet it always ends up being amazing.

I lift my head, turn my face to look up into his eyes. Keep stroking him, slow and soft. “Let go, Derek. Don’t hold back.”

My heart is hammering, nerves welling up within me. I’m not sure I know what I’m telling him to do to me, or if I’ll like it. I’m putting a lot of trust in Derek to not do anything that will hurt me or make me uncomfortable.

He just looks down at me, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw flexing and shifting. He’s breathing heavily, and his stomach muscles are tensed. I massage his balls, let my middle finger extend down the length of his taint. Press. Extend a little farther. Dare. His eyes narrow, and the grinding of his jaw quickens. Stroke him, fingers barely brushing his taut flesh. Keep my eyes on him as I slide my palm up over the head of his dick, cup and squeeze, twist, squeeze, keep the tightened grip as I stroke down. He exhales heavily, an almost-groan. As the tip of his cock peeks up over the edge of my hand, I take more and more of him into my mouth, pulling his length away so I can retain eye contact.

“Oh—oh, f*ck.”

“Mmmmmm.” I hum around his cock, slide my tongue over him, taste the leak of pre-come.

His eyelids flutter, his head falls back on his neck. He claws his fingers deeper into the wet, tangled mess of my hair and pulls my head down. Gently, slowly, but insistently. Giving me room to demur, but making it clear what he wants: Deeper. So I take him deeper, letting him push me down, open my throat. Taste his skin on my tongue, feel him at the back of my throat. Pump at the base of him, massage his taint. Back off, suction my lips around his head, my fist clenched beneath my mouth.

And then Derek starts to thrust. Gently fluttering his hips, sliding his cock between my lips, through my fist. Fucking my mouth. He pushes at me, ever so gently, as he thrusts.