Page 55 of The Idol

I smirked into his crease at his hardness, pleased that his body was reacting positively to my touch. His perfect handful jumped in my grip as a tight cry fell from his lips. I glanced up to see his brows scrunched together and a flush spreading across his cheeks. Without looking away, I latched my mouth over his slick hole and began to suck.

Elior’s hips jerked and shook like his body wasn’t sure what to do. I pressed my free hand against his back to keep him from bucking up, dipping my thumb in and out of those sexy fucking dimples. He whined in his sleep as I filthily ate out his hole, his dick twitching in the light hold I had it in.

“That’s right, baby. Just let Daddy pleasure you,” I murmured against his ass. I began grinding against the mattress, high off of Elior’s sweet taste.

Fuck, I couldn’t wait to have him out of this hellhole and back in my bed in D.C. I just needed to figure out how to keep him in a way that the Bureau wouldn’t fire me for. But that was a later problem, and right now I just needed Elior to come.

I pushed in a single finger into his soaked hole, my own eyes practically rolling back at the velvety feel of it. I tightened my grip around his dick and ground my palm against the head.

“Come on, cherub,” I coaxed, crooking my finger to find his gland. My lips tilted up as my fingertip pressed against the spongy nub. “Come for me.”

Elior’s hips stuttered, and he moaned as his cock pulsed in my hand, cum spurting out to cover my skin and drip onto the bed.

Rising to my knees, I yanked down my pants and began furiously stroking myself. Already on the edge, it took barely any time until my balls tightened and my orgasm overcame me. I held my cock over his hole, panting and watching as I painted him with my release.

I fell to my elbows, catching my breath while admiring the mess I’d made of Elior.

Once I calmed down, I took one more long look at my handiwork, then pulled his shorts and underwear back up the best I could without disturbing him. I carefully covered him back up with his sheets, then went to leave.

As I padded by his desk, my eyes caught on an open notebook and the pen beside it. Flipping to a blank page, I wrote a quick note and tore the sheet out, leaving it by his lamp for him to find in the morning.

11

Elior

I didn’t understand what I was feeling—only that my skin itched and my clothes felt… wrong—too clingy, a little damp.

Then the realization struck, sharp as a pinprick.

Oh no, no, no.

Not again.

I sat up quickly, heart thudding, and shoved the bed sheets aside. My breath caught the second I looked down.

My underwear was… soiled. My sleep shorts had a small spot of discoloration from whereithad leaked through.

Shame flared so hot it felt like a fever under my skin.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes. For several long seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

This had happened before.

A few times, over the years.

Always in the morning.

Always alone.

Always leaving me with the same hollow, sick feeling, like I’d woken up already guilty of sin.

I’d prayed every time, asking for forgiveness. Father had always taught that purity of body reflected purity of soul, and this—this could only mean I’d faltered somewhere—that the Light had found some hidden stain in me and was forcing it out.

I swallowed hard, running a hand through my hair even though it tangled around my fingers.

I was about to fall to the floor in prayer when I felt the itchiness somewhere it didn’t make sense to be.

I frowned in confusion. Dazed, I twisted my body on the bed and reached down, slipping my hand under my underwear.