Page 50 of Salt Kiss
Namely not falling in love with my boss.
After we eat, I’m less woozy, but I can’t stop yawning. My cock aches, and there’s a sweeter, more tender ache inside my body that makes me blush to feel. Mark watches me a moment, and says, “Bed.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, standing, bracing myself for what comes next. He’ll say that this was a good day, but that it wouldn’t be smart to do it again, and he’d be right, of course, and then we’ll sleep in separate beds, spend the rest of this trip avoiding each other, and then go back to Lyonesse as two polite but distant men.
“I’ll take care of the dishes,” Mark says. “Brush your teeth and do whatever else you need to, and then I expect you in my room by the time I’m finished.”
My breath catches as I meet his gaze. It’s dark, intense. His mouth is set in a hungry, grim line.
And he wants me in his bed tonight. I have no intention of arguing.
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He usesme one more time that night, after he comes in and finds me kneeling on the floor next to the bed. I have no idea what I’m doing, just groping for memories of what I’ve seen submissives do at Lyonesse, but it must be something close to right, because when he sees me, he hisses a sharp breath through his teeth. Shirtless, I can see the quick heave of his ribs as he stares at me on the ground.
“I didn’t treat you like a virgin today,” he says. “I should go easy on you tonight.”
“I don’t want you to go easy on me.”
“You keep saying this, but it isn’t altruism on my part,” Mark says. “It’s caretaking what belongs to me, especially because”—he’s very close to me now—“I’d like to fuck you again tomorrow. Come here.”
He pulls me up onto the bed on my back. My pajama pants are taken off and so are his. And I think, as he’s crawling over me, that he wants to use my mouth again. My blood is hot at the very idea.
“Such an exquisite mouth,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t move the way I think he will; he’s turned to straddle me facing my feet. “You can touch me now, just for now,” he says, like it’s the utmost kindness he can bestow. And then he lowers himself over my face.
My hands go instinctively to his hips just as I realize what he wants. A shiver rips through me. “I’ve never done this,” I manage on an exhale.
“I know you haven’t,” he says. “Just let me have your mouth and I’ll do all the rest.”
And that’s all he says before he’s sitting fully on my face. He still smells like our shower, soapy and fresh, and when I open my mouth and kiss—gently—the delicate, muscled ring of his opening, I taste a hint of soap too. Above me, he makes a satisfied grunt, and I can feel when he takes himself in hand and starts masturbating.
I kiss his entrance again, giving him my tongue as he told me to, and I’m rewarded with another grunted exhale. When I slide my hands from his warm hips to his hard thighs, I feel goose bumps all the way to his knees. Each shuttle of his fist on his length I feel in my own body. My erection is bone-achingly jealous; it bobs against my stomach as I start swirling my tongue on Mark’s skin. Precum leaks from my tip and starts wetting my stomach, and ithurtsbeing turned on again after being edged so mercilessly earlier, after the carpet, but the pain feels so strangely good. Like the soreness after a long workout, earned and satisfying.
He likes when I push my tongue inside him, or when I hold it flat for him to rock against, and I find it’s all unbearably arousing, having him move over me, his thighs caging my face, the firm curve of his ass pressed against me. The goose bumps betraying his pleasure, the unfairly easy way I can get this fierce man to buckle and grunt with just an indecent flutter of my tongue.
And he’s letting me touch him—freely, constantly, and I can’t get enough, my hands are roaming everywhere, the slim lines of his hips to his ridged stomach to the hard wings of his shoulder blades.
His thighs obsess me the most. The muscles shifting under my palms as he rocks over me, the crisp hair, the grace of them. It’s like stroking the flanks of a predatory cat or a wild horse. Powerful and beautiful and deadly.
He comes fast and hard riding my mouth, his hand jerking a merciless orgasm from his cock. It lands mostly on my belly, but some of it streaks across my own erection, and I can barely think, my breath and my body are wound so tight. I could come from the feeling of his semen on my skin, on my dick, hot and thick and wet—
He lifts from my mouth, a large hand wraps around my rigid length. It only takes three strokes, lubricated by his cum, and I’m gasping, twisting, trying to fuck my hips up into his hand as I throb out an agonizing climax. Pulse after pulse—tingles tracing from the soles of my feet to my fingertips—static bright and fuzzy at the edges of my vision.
He doesn’t give me any quarter, jerking me through it all, not stopping until he’s satisfied I’m finished, drained. I’m panting like I’ve run a race when he climbs off me and returns with another warm washcloth.
I gaze up at him as he cleans me, feeling like my arms and legs are made of lead. And then somehow my eyelids are heavy too, and my blinks feel slower and slower. I blink once and he’s cleaning me; I blink another time and he’s gone. Another time and he’s moving me, moving the covers, until we’re both under the crisp sheets and he’s tucked me into his arms, my back to his chest. Our skin presses together everywhere.
That night, I don’t have a single bad dream.
Seventeen
The morningafter our first day, I wake up to him stroking the skin around my opening. I arch instinctively.
“You’re awake,” he says, and nothing more as he reaches for the lube and condom box. He uses his own body to fix me to the bed while he works his way inside, and when I start moaning, he sticks his fingers in my mouth and orders me to suck. I come so much faster than him that I’m already hard again by the time he finishes.
“You’re so goddamn tight,” he mutters through his final thrusts. “Fuck. I’m going to need this so much.”
We come at the same time—me for the second time—grunting and messy. The only thing that would make it better would be if it were even messier—if there’d been no condom at all. Only him, marking me, making me wet and sloppy with his pleasure.
