Page 9 of Best Wrong Thing

I’m looking forward to learning how filthy his mouth is in the morning. Will he go down on me? If his kisses are anything to go by, he’ll be able to work wonders with his tongue as he takes my cock deep into his mouth. I whimper. My cock twitches, even though it’s flaccid.

Archer chuckles. “Thinking of something nice?”

“Your mouth on my cock.” I sound desperate. Needy.

“Well, since you gave me such a good pounding, maybe I won’t make you wait until morning.”

I suck in a breath. “You won’t?”

“Give me a chance to recover first, and I’ll suck your cock until your squirt your cum down my throat.”

I groan. “You swallow?”

“Uh-huh.” He licks my nipple, and a shiver runs through me.

“Do you work out?”

It’s a dumb question. Of course he does. No one gets that kind of muscle definition without putting effort into it.

“I do triathlons.”

“Wow.” The most I do is walk to and from the bus stop.

“It’s not that impressive.”

I push him onto his back, lie over him, and nuzzle his jaw. “Yes, it is.”

I claim his lips. I can’t get enough of his taste, his smooth skin beneath my palms, or how his breath catches in his throat each time I kiss him.

“You are so bossy in bed.” He wriggles, rubbing our cocks together. We’re too tired for them to react, but it’s still nice.

Why am I more confident in the bedroom than out of it? I’ve always been this way, which is why I stopped dating and started using hook-up apps. I can skip the awkward part and pretend I’m self-assured. Yet despite my clumsy awkwardness, Archer chose to flirt with me. More than that, he asked me to stay. Normally, I’d cut and run after sex, but I don’t want to. Is it because Archer makes me feel at ease or because I can escape my problems in his arms for a little longer?

“Why banking?” Archer asks.

“When I finished sixth form, I needed a job. I started as a cashier but have gradually worked my way up to assistant branch manager.”

“Impressive. Wait. You’ve been at the same branch for seventeen years?”

I wince. Is that most of his lifetime? “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

When I started working at the bank, he was four. Four. Fuck.

He taps my nose. “Don’t look so stricken. You’re not the first older guy I’ve slept with.”

“I’m not?”

“I like older guys.”

“Because they get better with age?”

“You remembered. Guys my age can be immature. Anyone would think you’re ready to draw your pension the way you’re acting. Fourteen years isn’t that big a difference.”

Yes. It is.

He laughs.