Page 119 of Catcher's Lock

“Shh. I’ll take you when I’m fucking ready,” I tell him. Thesight of my dick disappearing inch by slow inch into his straining hole is filthy, intoxicating, and even though I’m about two seconds from losing all control, I want to draw it out.

He shifts again, trying to impale himself, so I spank his ass. A shocked grunt escapes him, goosebumps blazing under my palm as I rub over the mark that blooms in their wake.

Fuck, he looks pretty in pink.

“Ohfuckohfuck,” he babbles as I fight to claim the last inch. Then I’m fully encased in the tightest, hottest, silkiest hole I’ve ever imagined, and his pillow-muffled cry is the exact same one that’s haunted my dreams for six years. My balls draw up with shocking speed as white-hot pleasure races up my spine, and before I can stop it, I’m blowing my fucking load with two quick, convulsive pumps like a goddamn fucking teenager.

Hot cum floods his channel, coating my cock, and I fall forward, burying my flaming face between his shoulder blades.

“Did you just…?”

“Shut up,” I mumble, my hips rocking to chase the aftershocks entirely without my consent. He falls silent, tremoring beneath me, and although I’d love to believe he was having his own untimely orgasm, I know he’s fucking laughing at me.

Fuck that shit.

Swallowing my own hysterical giggle, I prop myself up on one arm and fist my other hand in his hair.

There are perks to being twenty-four and newly sober. With enough blow to combat the whiskey dick, I used to be able to last for hours, but it was always because I was numb, and it was only enjoyable by the loosest definition of the word. Snugged in Josha’s tight ass, drenched in rapture, my cock twitches, wide awake and still more than hard enough to do the job.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, sprawled beneath me with his legs spread over my hips andhis dimpled ass arched up in offering.

I yank his head back to put my lips to his ear.

“Don’t think that means I’m done with you,” I warn, punctuating the words with a roll of my hips. If anything, he feels even better now—my hypersensitive dick is primed to every flutter and clench of his channel, and the idea of fucking him in my own cum has every possessive instinct clamoring its approval. “You’re in trouble now. I can go forever the second time around. How many times do you think I can makeyoucome on my cock before you beg me to stop?”

“Fuck,” he husks, a shudder rippling through him. Sweat drips from my temple and lands in the valley between his shoulder blades, and my eyes chase it down his bowed spine. Tension coils behind my balls in a slow-building thrum of pleasure, a wave I could ride all night.

I want to make him come—to feel him clench and shatter under and around me. Digging my toes into the mattress, I adjust my angle, seeking that magic spot.

C’mon, c’mon. Give it to me.

When I find it, his fingers scrabble at the bedsheets and a broken cry escapes the strained arch of his throat.

“That’s it,” I groan. “Look at you falling the fuck apart so perfectly. I’m gonna make a fucking mess of you, Rocket.”

Releasing his hair, I reach around to capture his dick, then stroke it in time to each grinding, leisurely thrust.

“Oh shit,” he gasps, and just like that, he’s spilling over my fingers. “You fucking asshole.”

Ha.

“Mmm. That’sone,” I say. “Call me whatever you want, baby. All you need to do is lie there and take it while thisassholeowns yours.”

I draw back, and he hums low in his throat, asound so enchanting my mind whirls into focus.

I want to make him sing.

When I drive back in, I’m rewarded with a gaspy little moan, and the last tether of my illusory restraint unwinds in a spool of desire. Gripping his hips with both hands, I fuck into him with all my deep and desperate hunger.

Sweat shines in the grooves along his spine as he braces his hands on the headboard and rocks back to meet each brutal thrust. The wet smack of my hips meeting his ass weaves a percussive counterpoint to our melody of moans and cries and cursing gasps, and this,this, is the symphony I’d do anything for. This seamless merging of skin and sound and soul.

“Quill,” he pleads, raw and ravaged. Something larger than lust, deeper than desire—somethingtitanic—catches in my throat and rips me wide open. I lurch back, trembling from head to toe, and fumble at his hip with frantic hands.

“Over. Roll over. I need—”

He complies, his own sex-soaked limbs clumsy andtoo slow, awkwardly knocking against mine. But then he’s on his back, and I’m between his legs, and I plunge back inside him with one sure stroke—surging up to catch his hands and pin them to the mattress above his head.

Under my love-drunk gaze, he’s a vision of carnal abandon, shimmering with need—all clenched abs and taut throat and trembling thighs.