Page 63 of The Fake Divination Offense
I nod, can’t form words, can’tthink.
He smiles, a cute little half tilt of his mouth that pushes at one of his dimples, and he’s diving back in, humming in pleasure as he sucks me down again.
Another gag, holding, holding, then he suckles on my head and twists his hand around the length he can’t reach.
It’s sloppy but the best thing I’ve ever felt, and him disheveling himself for me is my undoing.
“Careful,” I croak out, muscles clenching down my spine, the tingle building, building in my groin. “Back off, sweetheart. Gonna come.”
Face smeared in spit and tears, mouth full of my dick, he gives me alook. Anare you kidding, I fucking earned thislook.
And that’s it.
Blades of light score across my eyes as my orgasm hits me like a storm, roaring thunder and torrents of hail. My hips thrust forward and I’m half aware of Alexo gagging again, but he’s sucking, too, taut, single-minded draws of his mouth, and it yanks one last spurt out of me, tremors setting off uncoordinated twitches through my nerve endings.
He rocks back, shoulders hitting the door behind him, chest heaving. Sweat glosses his skin and his hair’s a mess, his face utterly wrecked but matched by his satisfied, exhausted smile.
Arms numb, I reach for him. The post-orgasmic haze is throbbing through me, and I need him to come, too, need to see him fall apart—
But I note a spot on the floor between my feet and the way his pants are gaped open.
He came from blowing me.
I haul him up, but he seems too blissed out to stand yet—that’s fine. I’ve got him.
His mouth tastes like me. I’m all over him, my scent mixing with his; I’m the reason for his tear-streaked face. I scoop him into my arms and plunge my tongue into his mouth, soaking up the combination of us, the branding of me on him.
I want to leave him this way. To walk out that door and back into that gala with him looking like this, so everyone knows—the guests, the reporters, anyone who sees pictures of the event—everyoneknows whose he is.
I make sure he’s steady on his feet before I tuck myself away, then fasten his pants. I adjust his shirt so it hangs right, and I fix his body chain that got twisted a bit on his shoulder. His hair’s a riot of curls, so I do what I can to tame them back down, and I find a roll of paper towels and wet a few in a utility sink before gently wiping his cheeks, his throat, his lips, under his eyes.
He lets me, his breathing stabilizing the longer I work, his gaze on me observant, peaceful.
When he’s more or less set to rights, I clean the floor, toss the paper towels, and run my hands up and down his arms, watching ripples of goose bumps set off in my wake.
“Thank you,” he says into our calm silence.
I smile. “I should be thanking you. That was—”
“Awkward? Messy? Gods, I slobbered everywhere.”
“Perfect.” I take his chin between my thumb and forefinger. “It was perfect.Youare perfect.”
He blushes. But the hazy peace dims in his eyes and he doesn’t smile, his gaze drifting down to stare at my chest.
“Mm,” is all he says, noncommittal.
“Are you—”
“We should get back out there,” he cuts me off and forces up a grin, framing his face with his hands. “Do I look okay, or do I look like I got face-fucked by a half giant?”
A chuckle bursts out of me. “I hardly face-fucked you.”
“Hm. You’re right. Next time, then.”
And he’s out the door before I can do more than sputter a response.
The hall is empty around our closet, thankfully, and Alexo walks a few paces ahead of me as we make our way back to the doors. He’s putting distance between us, and I’m not entirely sure why. I know it has to do with the secrets he’s still keeping, the things he can’t let me know, the things I won’t ask about.
