Page 27 of Edged
“Yes.”
“Say red if you want me to stop,” I told him, hooking my fingers around the waistband of his underwear and pulling him away from the wall. With a quick flip, I gave him a shove toward the bed.
He landed on his back and I grabbed the cuffs of his jeans and pulled them off while he scooted toward the headboard, eyes heavy with want.
“Do you have condoms?” I asked.
He shook his head, like it was a test. Lucky for him, I was a star student.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out my wallet and produced a condom, which earned me half of a smile.
“Lube?” I asked.
He gestured toward the nightstand, a tube right there between the phone and the remote for the TV.
“What a Boy Scout,” I murmured, “Now take off your shirt.”
“You.”
Owen straightened up and reached behind him, rucking up the material before pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor. I matched him, tossing my shirt onto the foot of the bed. My pants were undone enough for me to get my cock out, and I crawled up between his legs.
“Red to stop.” He repeated my statement from earlier and I confirmed the agreement with a nod. “And no kissing.”
“At all?”
“On the mouth.”
Owen’s lips looked like fucking dessert, but I’d have to entertain myself elsewhere, it seemed.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“This is not the start of a thing, Archer.” Owen folded one arm behind his head, half propped and half naked against the white bedding.
He looked like a nightmare that I never wanted to wake up from.
“It’s just for right now,” I said back to him. “Just for tonight…and last night.”
“And ten years ago,” he murmured, reaching for my face and stopping himself before his fingers touched my skin. He pulled back quickly as if the proximity to me had burned him, like he’d forgotten who he was and what we’d been.
“You can touch me if you want to.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly, taking the offending hand and tucking it behind his head alongside the other one.
I chuckled and pulled down Owen’s tight black briefs, exposing the substantial thickness—and length—of his cock.
“Do you ever top?” I asked softly, tapping my fingertip against his precum-slick slit.
“No.”
“That’s a shame.” I tightened my grip and gave him a slow stroke, the heat of our skin making enough friction for him to wince and throw the bottle of lube at me.
“I don’t like when it hurts,” he snapped.
“I’m not sure I believe that.” I dipped my chin toward my chest and opened the lube, drizzling a small amount into my palm. “I remember the tone of your voice that night.”
“Don’t start.”
“No?” I held up my hand, slippery and cool, then waggled my fingers at him before pressing my fingers down behind his balls.
