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Stupid big gay dude broke my brain.
I want to be the one whose pleasure is the focus, not the other way around. Why can’t I just lay there and take it? I am not at all a giving person. Give it to me, dammit. Give me all of the things. That’s what I want.
“Bet you’re wishing you didn’t suck so bad at beer pong, huh?” “Mm,” I grunt, turning my head towards the wall. “Mostly I just wish you’d shut the fuck up.”
I like him. I have a crush on this guy. A big one. I don’t know what this means, how it’s possible to go from straight to wanting everything from some big-tattooed dude, but it’s there. And I want everything. His attention, the words he speaks, the very air he breathes. I want him to like me, to want me as much as I want him.
“Well, no classes, but I have availability if you’re interested.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way. Like he didn’t just ask if I want to get sweaty with him on a regular basis.
His tatted hands––black and grey roses on each one, with a bunch of smaller random tattoos on each finger––would look so good on me. Anywhere. My neck. My arms or legs. My dick. Ugh. They’d look so fucking good on my dick. I just know it.
I’m a one-and-done kind of guy, and Liam here screams clingy. Fucking screams it.
The way he looks at me tells me he’s absolutely gagging for my dick.
Such a pretty little thing, I think, my lips pressed against his throat. “So soft and sweet,”
“Shh,” I soothe, rubbing my hand in a circular motion on his lower back. “You said easy, Liam. I’m going to take care of this little hole, I promise, but I’m doing this how you need it. So gentle, isn’t that right, beautiful?”
Jesus. Let this be the hole they bury me in.
The difference between coming how I used to and coming like this is insane. This is a full-body orgasm. My blood feels like it’s been replaced with a McDonald’s Sprite, carbonated and syrupy, as it runs through my veins and lightly tickles my skin.
Sex with Liam is slow. Sensual. Soft and sticky-sweet. He takes long, languid strokes like he’s starved for them.
He sighs, then starts touching me. He grabs my arms and puts my hands on him, and I just let him. He moves my limbs until he’s got a bicep under his head and my other arm over his middle, and it’s such a relief that it stuns me.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that, like making me feel good is his sole purpose for existing in this moment. My pretty little pillow princess taking the time and care to make me feel good is everything.
“Yes.” I fucking love the way that word sounds on his lips. It just slips right off of his tongue and slithers its way around me, pulling me towards him like a silky lasso until I’m standing between his legs. The ones always spread for me.
It’s bigger than I thought it’d be, and as I finally pull it all the way out, it has his hole gaping a good inch for just a second, revealing the deep red of his insides.
He wants to date me. He wants to date motherfucking me! I knew he was a big fat liar when he said he didn’t want me.
He just doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand the effect he has on me. It’s like Bash was made for me, an aphrodisiac curated just for my tastes.
Trust. It’s just another thing he’s given me that I’ll try my hardest to keep safe, to earn.
“Jesus,” I mutter quietly. “You’re fucking filthy.” “I’m what you made me,” he accuses, still breathing heavily, broad chest moving as his body starts to sink into the couch. Mine, my entire body sings. I’ve made him mine.
“Let’s get dressed.” He sits up, reaching for my hand and pulling me until I actually move. “I don’t want to.” “Come on,” he insists, and when we get to his dresser, I can’t keep the dopey-ass grin off my face as I realize he’s grabbing two sets of his loungewear. Poor sap still doesn’t realize I’m hoarding his belongings.
I look at him, at his smooth features, his pillowy lips, and those sexy little nose piercings and all of his tattoos, and the last thought that I have before I pass out, dead to the world, is that I’m going to love him for the rest of my life.