Page 67 of Take Two

“Answer me, my sweet baby Blue,” I whisper, my lips hover just out of reach, teasing. Taunting. His breath hitches, his fingers clench in my shirt like he’s fighting the urge to drag me back to him.

“Why?” The word is a growl, edged with impatience, but he plays along.

I let my hands slide lower, my thumbs pressing into the crease where his thighs meet his ass, and I squeeze, hard. “Because you were mine the moment you ordered that Jack and Coke that night at the Langham.” My voice drops, rough with memory. “You were mine the first time you wrapped those long legs around my waist and took what you wanted from me. You’ve been mine every second since, even when you walked away and fucked other people.” My fingers dig in deeper, pulling a broken moan from his lips.

“You. Are. Mine, Cyaire Reed.” The last words are a growl, punctuated by a sharp squeeze of his ass, and then I lift him like he weighs nothing. His legs lock around my waist instantly, his arms loop over my shoulders as he clings to me, his mouth crashing into mine before I can even finish the motion.

The kiss is brutal. Teeth clash, tongues war, and I fuck his mouth with mine like I’m already inside him, deep, relentless, possessive. His fingers tangle in my braids, yanking just hard enough to sting, and I groan into him, swallowing the sound he makes when I bite down on his lower lip. We’re both breathless when we finally break apart, our chests heaving, our lips swollen. His eyes are dark with hunger, his pupils blown wide, and the sight of him like this, undone, desperate, mine, makes my dick ache. I don’t let him recover. I don’t let him think. I just take his mouth again, because I can, because this is where he belongs, in my arms.

The house swallows us whole as we crash through the hallway, our mouths fused together, hands roaming with desperate urgency. My sandals hit the floor first, kicked aside without breaking the kiss, and then Cyaire’s tank follows, peeled off in one smooth motion. He’s already working at my t-shirt, dragging it over my head before I can even register the loss of it, the fabric joining the growing pile of discarded clothes in our wake. Shoes, socks, the detritus of our haste scattered like breadcrumbs marking the path to where I’m taking him.

The couch flashes in my periphery. No. This isn’t some quick, frantic fuck against the nearest surface. I want him spread out. I want him mine. The bedroom upstairs is the only option, but the way Cyaire’s grinding against me, his dick thick and insistent against my stomach, tells me he won’t last that long. Not if I let him keep rubbing off on me like this, and fuck no am I letting him cum before I’ve had my fill.

“Oh, my needy, needy Blue,” I murmur against his lips as we reach the foot of the stairs, my voice rough with amusement. I ease him back onto his feet, my hands already sliding down to grip the waistband of his shorts. Before he can so much as take his next breath, I drop to my knees in front of him, the hardwood cool against my skin. His eyes widen, but there’s no time for protest. I hook my fingers into the fabric and yank them down, shorts and briefs, in one swift move. They pool at his ankles, and he steps out of them automatically, his dick already heavy and weeping, slapping against his stomach as it springs free.

“Jamie,” he breathes, my name a half-moan, half-complaint, and the sound makes my heart beat faster. I tilt my head back to look up at him, taking in the sight, lips swollen from kissing, cheeks flushed, his dick long and dark at the tip, precum already beading. He’s perfect. A goddamn vision.

“Cyaire,” I answer, just as breathless, because even after all this time, the sight of him like this, still steals the air from my lungs. I lean in, pressing my nose against the warm weight of his balls, inhaling deep. He smells like salt and sun, like the faintest trace of sweat from the day, but beneath it all is him, that clean, intoxicating scent that’s uniquely Cyaire, the one that’s haunted me for years. My groan vibrates against his skin, and his fingers grip my braids.

“What are you. . .oh, fuck—” His words dissolve into a broken moan as I don’t give him time to finish, my tongue drags up the thick vein on the underside of his dick before I take him into my mouth. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and I swallow around the head, my throat opens for him as I bob down, taking him deep. Cyaire stumbles back a step, one hand slamming against the wall for balance, the other white-knuckled on the banister. His thighs tremble, and he fights to stay upright, to surrender to the sensation without collapsing.

I look up through my lashes, and relish the way his head falls back, the cords of his neck standing out as he pants. His abs contract with every ragged breath, his dick kicks against my tongue. I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard, and his hips stutter, a broken sound tears from his throat. My free hand cups his balls, rolling them gently before tugging just enough to make him gasp. He’s babbling now, my name a litany on his lips, his words dissolving into pleas and curses and incoherent begging.

“Jamie, fuck. . .I don’t. . .I don’t want to cum yet, please—” His voice is raw, his body strung tight as a bow, and I pull back just enough to let him breathe, my lips slick with him as I lick the precum from the corner of my mouth.

“Where do you want to cum, Blue?” I ask, my voice a dark purr, my fingers still stroking the sensitive skin behind his sac. His gaze snaps down to mine, heavy-lidded and drunk on pleasure, and the answer is written all over his face before he even says it.

“You.” The word is a whisper, a prayer, and it sends a jolt of heat straight to my gut. I rise slowly, my hands slide up his thighs, my thumbs brush the crease where they meet his hips. I stand, our bodies align, his dick spit-slick and throbbing against my stomach.

There’s no surprise in his words, not really. I’m vers and so is he, but he’s never outright asked to fuck me before. If he never did. . .if he only ever wanted me inside him. . .that would be fine. More than fine. Because the truth is, I’ll take him any way I can get him.

My fingers tighten around his waist, my thumb brush the dip just above his hipbone as I pull him back against me. “You want to fuck me, Blue?” The words come out rough, low, but it’s not really a question. Not when his body is already answering for him. His pulse jumps under my touch, his hips roll back just slightly, like he’s testing the weight of me against him.

Cyaire doesn’t hesitate. He steps up onto the first stair, his bare feet silent against the wood, and I follow, my gaze locks on to his muscles shifting beneath his skin, his shoulders tense just enough to betray how badly he wants this. He takes another step, then another, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the anticipation. I watch every movement, every flicker of his lashes, the way his throat works as he swallows.

“Yes,” he says, his voice steady but threaded with something darker, something hungry. His eyes never leave mine, not even when he takes another step up, not even when his balance wavers just for a second. He trusts me to have him, to catch him, to follow, and I do.

My hands slide down to the waistband of my shorts, my boxers, and I pause just long enough to hook my thumbs into the fabric and push them down, stepping out of them without breaking stride. The cool air hits my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his lascivious gaze raking over me when I kick the last of the fabric away.

“Oh fuck, yes,” he groans, his hand dropping between his legs to grip himself, giving his dick a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes my mouth water. He takes two more steps up, his thighs flexing, and I follow, my own body thrums with the need to touch him, to have him.

I stop just below him, close enough that my breath fans over his chest, close enough that he can feel the words more than hear them. “I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow,” I murmur, my voice a dark promise. “I want you to paint my body with your cum, rub it into my skin until all I can smell is you. Until all I can taste is you.” My hands find his hips again, my fingers dig in just enough to make him gasp as I take the last few steps up, crowding him against the top of the staircase.

Cyaire’s laugh is rough, disbelieving, his head shakes just slightly as he looks at me like I’ve just unraveled him completely. “Jamie Maxwell,” he breathes, my name a curse and a prayer all at once, “you’re fucking filthy.” He steps back just enough to let me push past him, his palm slapping against my ass as I move, the sting of it making me grin. “Now go get your ass ready for me,” he orders, his voice all smoke and command, and fuck if I don’t love the way he sounds.

I don’t need to be told twice.

The years since I last let someone in like this, truly let them in, have left me rusty, my body tight with the kind of anticipation that borders on nervousness. It’s not because I don’t want this, I do, I want it too much. Cyaire isn’t just anyone. He is the last man I ever want to share myself with like this. This matters.

I turn the shower on hot, let the steam fill the bathroom and step under the spray. The water sluices over my skin, loosening the tension in my shoulders, but my mind is still sharp, still focused on what’s coming. On him. I take my time, washing thoroughly, my hands methodical as I run the soap over my chest, my arms, my thighs, everywhere he’ll touch, everywhere he’ll taste. There’s no rush here, not when I know what’s waiting for me in that bedroom. Not when I know how good it’s going to be.

I reach for the lube tucked into the shower caddy, the bottle familiar in my palm. It’s been a while since I’ve needed it, but my body remembers the routine. I slick my fingers, my breath hitching just slightly as I press one inside myself, the stretch burning in the best way. I take it slow, working myself open, my free hand bracing against the tile as I add a second finger, then a third. The water beats down on my back, the heat of it mixes with the heat pooling low in my gut. I imagine it’s his hands on me instead of my own, his fingers, his control, the way he’d probably murmur filthy things in my ear just to watch me fall apart.

By the time I step out of the shower, my skin is flushed, my body hums with need. I dry off quickly, barely bothering with the towel before I move toward the bedroom, my pulse thrums in my throat. The air is cooler out here, raising goosebumps along my arms, but I don’t care. All I can think about is the way Cyaire looked at me on those stairs, like he wanted to devour me whole.

The room is swallowed in darkness now, the only illumination coming from the faint, watery glow of the streetlights outside, their blue-tinged light spills through the half-drawn blinds and paints Cyaire’s skin in shifting shadows. He stands there, just beside the bed, his body half-lit, half-hidden, like some kind of myth I’m not sure I deserve to witness. His hand moves slowly over himself, his fingers wrapped around his dick, stroking with deliberate, maddening precision as his gaze rakes over me. There’s no rush in him, no urgency, just the quiet, unshakable confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it.

Fuck, I can’t look away.