Patchwork Paradise(58)

“Oh, no,” I said, crawling away from him. “Don’t even think about it.”

He withdrew his hand with a startled look. “Is . . . Are we okay? Did I do something wrong?”

“Every time you touch me, Milo wakes up and starts crying. I can’t deal with more crying right now, so hands to yourself.”

Thomas smirked. “I see.” He folded his hands in his lap and faced the TV. I turned it on. And waited. He didn’t try to touch me again.

Well, damn.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. It could be a smile tugging at his mouth, or he could really be into Midsomer Murders. It was hard to tell. I tried to pay attention to the gazillion killings that always seemed to happen in a town of two hundred people, but I kept being drawn to Thomas. Was he seriously not going to make another move?

I let my hand creep toward him.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Hands to yourself, Ollie. Stick to your own rules.”

My hand kept on creeping. When I was nearly touching the fabric of his shorts, he grabbed my wrist and held it. He kneeled up on the couch and loomed over me as I sank deeper and deeper against the armrest. “What if he wakes up?” he asked as he pressed my hands above my head. I shifted so I could cradle his hips between my legs and we were stretched out with him on top of me.

“I take full responsibility,” I whispered, and then he was kissing me like there was no tomorrow.

We’d made out quite a lot this weekend, but not like this. Not with his whole body against mine. I was aware of the hardness of him all over, but mostly where he pushed into my groin, hot and wanting.

“Thomas,” I whispered, my voice coming out reedy. “If this gets cut short again, I’m going to have to wank in the shower. I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to stand it if—”

“I know, shh.” He mouthed at my neck, flicked my earlobe with his tongue, and I squirmed and panted and made needy noises until I felt his hand between us, undoing first my shorts and then his. “Lift your hips a bit.”

“Oh God,” I breathed, and did as I was told. He let go of my hand, and I immediately petted his hair, his neck, his shoulders, and then, oh, glorious freedom. “Waitwaitwait.”

Thomas froze. “What?”

“Lemme see. I wanna see.” I lifted up his T-shirt and Hmm, lovely. “Oh yeah.” He was big enough, but not huge, with a nice girth and a mushroom cap I wanted—

“You’re making me self-conscious,” he said. When I looked up, he really was blushing.

“Aw, baby.” I filled my fist with the silky skin of his cock and squeezed, relishing how his eyes drooped shut and a small groan gushed from his mouth. “This is all yummy, nummy goodness.”

He shoved my T-shirt out of the way and rubbed my belly, just above my pubic hair. I used to groom with Sam, but I hadn’t bothered in a long time. Thomas didn’t seem to mind. His palm tickled my pubes. He grabbed the base of my cock, and I thought fireworks might burst from my ears.

“Move your hand,” he told me, and I let go. He sank down so we fit together nicely, wrapped his large paw around the both of us, and moved his hips in a slow, sensuous glide. Our foreskins rubbed together, and my ass clenched as I threw my head back. Thomas kissed my throat, gently lapped at my Adam’s apple, and squeezed his hand around us.

“I am so not going to last,” I told him, and he laughed against my jaw.

“Probably a good thing, since the baby will wake up soon.”

The baby. It should’ve been a mood killer, but instead, a different kind of warmth unfurled in my belly. For now though, I pushed the thought aside, grabbed Thomas’s ass, parted my knees wider, and wriggled closer.

“Jerk me off, Thomas,” I whispered in his ear. “I need to come all over you.”

He kissed me deeply, and I let him overwhelm me, body and soul. He smelled delicious, he felt even better, and he kissed like a god. It took no time at all for the muscles in my buttocks to tighten as the climax built in my groin. It wasn’t going to be an earth-shattering orgasm—I wouldn’t last long enough for that—and yet in that moment it was the sweetest thing I’d ever experienced.

“Thomas,” I whispered, clinging to his shoulders. His head dropped to the crook of my neck and nodded. He let go of himself and concentrated on me, and I managed to bite down on his T-shirt in time to muffle the shout. The first spurt of come slicked his grip, and the sound his fist made around my cock was obscene, but I shuddered and hung on, unable to care.

Before I came down, I wriggled a hand between us, found his cock, and stroked him. “I want to blow you,” I murmured in his ear.

“Oh God, no.”

“What?”

“Ah f*ck, I meant, gnnn, if you do that, I want it to last more than a second. Jesus, Ollie, can you—”

“Oh.” I released the death grip on his dick and petted it a little in apology. “Sorry. I thought you meant—”

“I know.” He lifted his head and looked at me. His irises had been almost completely swallowed by his pupils, and with his hair covering his forehead in thick, sweaty peaks, he was beyond edible. I moved my hand over his cock and rubbed my thumb over the head, under the foreskin, and watched a dark-red flush creep along his throat. His cheeks were mottled pink with arousal, and his thighs shook with the effort of holding himself up so I could stroke him. He was falling apart, and he was all mine.