Page 44 of Dangle

Heart racing like a runaway train, my mind emptied, leaving it a solid white room in a vacuum where nothing existed but the two of us and the hot, wet heat of his mouth, the grip of his throat at my head and his hand at my base. He worked me over, pushing me toward the edge, over and over. Breaths heavy and deep. A heaviness thickened in my pelvis and back, growing and twisting and twining until I was gasping and coming and coming and gasping, cum shooting from my tip.

He shuddered. The sound, Jesus fucking Christ, the sound he made. Half sob, half whimper that rumbled around my over-sensitive jerking shaft, triggering a bone-deep shiver and stiffening the flagging erection he still nursed on.

It was fucking insane. He fell to his knees and sucked my dick before I kissed him.

Where the fuck did that come from?

I ran a kink club.

I’d scened with people without ever knowing anything more than their safe words.

I’d gone balls deep before I knew their favorite fucking color.

I’d been the other man in cuck scenes and arranged con/noncon scenes, never knowing fuck all about them other than all the parties consented.

What the fuck? Where was this coming from?

Pushing the craziness from my head, I focused my attention on the man at my feet. My fingers switched from gripping his hair to combing through the silky tresses. A tiny, purred sigh ghosted my skin as he sat back on his heels. He nuzzled his face into my groin, his nose finding the space between my junk and thigh as he relaxed completely.

When he sniffed, a breathy chuckle escaped.

“You good?” I asked.

His chin tilted up, coming to rest on my quad. Our eyes met and—fuck me, the look on his face—fucking beautiful. With a soft smile, he said, “So, so, so good.”

I bent, pulled him to his feet, then lifted him into my arms by his thighs. He glommed onto me with an adorable, surprised squeak. Arms and legs wrapped around me as I carried him to the sectional. Grabbing the throw from where Bauer—because it wasn’t Priest or Cam; they were functional, not decorative, and it damn sure wasn’t Gavin because…well, his focus was hockey or fucking—had it draped, I spread it out over the corner cushions.

I dropped to the couch, cradling Trey against my chest, clocking the wet fabric of his briefs where they rubbed against my skin. Three thoughts slammed into me one after another.

He came in his boxers.

He sucked cock like a pro.

He got off on it.

One and three were the same, but fuck me running, that one deserved repeating.

Time passed us by with him nestling himself closer, nuzzling his face against my chest, neck, and armpit, while I cradled him against me, still carding fingers of one hand through his hair and the other hand danced along his back and waist. Every once in a while, Trey squirmed, muttered to himself, then settled down.

He came in his shorts; he had to be getting uncomfortable. So, as much as I hated to move—sue me, I liked cuddling—I pressed my lips to his forehead and slipped from under him to sit on the edge of the sofa next to him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

At least I thought that’s what he said. His words came out muddled as if he’d been on the verge of sleep.

Pressing another kiss to his forehead, I whispered, “I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna grab you something comfortable to change into since all you have here are the things you wore last night.”

“Okay.” He lifted his head with a smirk, his gaze laser focused on my crotch.

“Yeah, me too, since my cock is still out,” I said.

As if he weren’t adorable enough, his bottom lip curled downward in a pout, providing further evidence of him being the brat I believed him to be. I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Patting his ass, I stood and went to the bedroom area to get dressed, then dig through the dresser.

Grabbing my duffle from the closet floor, I pulled on my clothes—an old Eagle, Globe, and Anchor T-shirt so old it was nearly threadbare and a pair of joggers I’d chopped the bottoms off of. I hated the way they hugged my calves. The lower portion of the pants was always too small, but the tightness was perfect in my thighs. Snug enough I could run or spar in them without them getting in the way without being indecent. Well, unless I went commando. Then my dick ended up slithering down the left leg, which always ended up with me half hard.

At the dresser, I hit gold for Trey in the first drawer, finding a Holt MotorSports T-shirt, socks, and a pair of red and black flannel pajama pants. Pulling them out, I laughed. I had to. They sported the same logo as the one on the shirt I swiped. I don’t know why it cracked me up whenever I saw something emblazoned with one of the Holt family’s many logos. The fuckers were like fucking Midas. If they touched it, it didn’t just turn to gold; it fucking multiplied and sprouted a bunch of gold-duplicating babies.

Trey’s stolen wardrobe got deposited in the bathroom before I returned to the living room.