Page 41 of Salt Kiss
What if he rejects me again? Sends me away after I’ve made it excruciatingly plain how much I want him? Want to trythisfor him?
He could break me. And not with floggers or clamps or whatever else the rooms at Lyonesse hold, but with only one word. With a turn of his head.
I’d be broken.
But he doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t tell me no. Instead, the fingers on my chin shift, and I feel a thumb drag slowly over my bottom lip. My mouth opens without me telling it to, and I see his pupils bloom even darker.
“This won’t be easy.” And that’s all he says before he uses his free hand to tug his drawstring pants down and pull out his cock.
I have to look, I can’t not look. He’s mostly hard, the flesh jerking as it continues to fill with blood, and light catches on the line of golden hair above it.
My mouth waters.
“I don’t want easy,” I whisper, and then I utter the most honest thing I’ve ever said: “I want you.”
Mark rolls his jaw. One hand holds my chin, the other his ready erection.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.
And then he pushes the head of his penis into my open mouth.
It’s hot and smooth, and the taste of him is the taste of freshly cleaned skin with a trace of soap. I’ve never done this before, and there’s the quiet terror that I’ll be no good at it, that Mark will sneer his derision and pull back, but there’s something inside me that’s larger than the terror—something that’s eager to please and also certain that being eager to please is enough.
I try licking, wrapping my tongue around the taut crown. His lips part.
“So pretty,” he says darkly, like it’s a bad thing, like it’s the worst thing. “So goddamn pretty, Tristan.”
My own erection kicks at the danger in his voice, straining against the material of the athletic shorts I’m wearing without anything underneath. I want to be pretty for him; I want him always to be talking in that voice, like he has plans that should terrify the fuck out of me.
Whatever’s been changing inside me for the last two months has finished changing. I need to be his. On my knees, on my back, humiliated, bruised, used. Whatever he wants me to be, I want it too.
I’m so hard now, just from his presence in my mouth, just from his voice, and then he tightens the hand on my jaw. “Hold that sweet mouth open,” he says, and slides deeper in.
It’s nothing like porn, nothing at all, because porn hadn’t told me that it would be so wet, such a stretch, that I’d feel a strange surge of pride whenever he gets deep enough to choke me. Which he does more and more, pulling out and then sliding to the back of my throat. His hand is still on my jaw, holding me open, and then his free hand comes up and brushes something off my cheek.
A single tear.
It’s purely physiological, from the steady invasion of my throat, but something about it feels good too, like crying for real, freeing and cleansing. Soldiers shouldn’t cry, but I’ve never been able to help it much, probably because most of the time it feels right and necessary—confirmation that an invisible pain is real; it’s so real that it can be touched and tasted.
And it turns out I like this, being used to the point of tears. I suck in breaths when he withdraws and try to swallow him down when he goes back in, and while he’s not being easy with me, I recognize that he’s holding something back too.
When I meet his gaze again through my leaking tears, I see that his restraint is not out of pity, or worry, or anything tender or tentative. He’s taking the time to study my every reaction; he’s using his restraint to watch me with a newly unfettered expression. Like he knows it’s my first time and he’s relishing it.
I will use you like a toy. Like a thing. I will make you cry and like it.
“Swallow it,” he says, and that’s all the warning I get before he pulses in my mouth. He’s so deep that I barely taste him, but I feel it, hot and thick, and when I start swallowing, he slides his hand down to my throat to feel me drinking him down.
Triumph is scrawled all over his face. That expression with his hand on my throat—and knowing that my mouth was good enough to get him there within minutes—means that I’m now in an agony of lust. My cock burns against the silky fabric of my shorts, and my heart is thumping against my ribs like a sledgehammer.
He holds me still until he’s finished, and I’m looking up at him with tears streaming down my face. As he pulls out, I become aware of how muchwasn’tin my mouth; God help me if he ever wants to go all the way in. But the trepidation is tangled up with lust too, with the need to besomethingfor him, even if it’s just an obedient plaything.
He stares down at me, his palm idly massaging my throat. He’s still hard, his chest moving in controlled oscillations, and his face is still victorious.
“I knew it,” he says.
“Knew what, sir?” My voice is lower, thicker, with his hand against my windpipe.
“That this is where you belonged.”
