When Cruce groans loudly, my smile goes wider. I give a stroke, all the way to the tip, and rub my thumb across the wetness there before gliding back down.
“Christ,” he mutters, and the words sound like he’s being tortured.
I jolt and snatch my hand away, forgetting all about taking what I want in my dream.
But then his large hand clasps onto my wrist, and he growls, “Don’t.”
And well… that feels way too real. The way he’s squeezing, the slight pain in my bones and his words seem to be louder and excruciatingly clear to my senses. Not a foggy dream at all.
My eyes pop open. Slowly, I tip my head up.
That’s when I realize I’m not dreaming at all. In fact, I’m not sure I ever had been.
Cruce’s face is harsh in the morning light. I can’t tell if he’s just irritated or angry.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, earnestly trying to pull my hand back.
Holding tightly, he speaks through gritted teeth. “Don’t,” he says again. When he adds, “Stop,” I almost don’t believe my ears.
Don’t. Stop.
My eyes widen at the implication. Before I can even hazard what it all means, he’s pushing my hand back down. My breath becomes nonexistent when he releases me, only to lift his hips and push his sweats down enough to release himself.
Once again, he grips my wrist, shoves it to his erection, and practically snarls, “Take it.”
I don’t need provocation, orders, or begging from him. Rolling, I shift up onto my elbow and take his cock in my free hand. He groans, lets his head flop to the pillow, and squeezes his eyes shut in what I’m hoping is full surrender.
My gaze slides down his body, which is lightly tanned from his time in the sun these last few days, and to the beauty straining against my hand. I start stroking, slowly at first, but then faster because I like drawing forth the wonderful variety of grunts and hissing sounds he makes. His hips thrust counter to my movements, his breathing ragged.
In my entire sexual life to date, I’ve never brought a man to completion this way. I’ve never been with someone satisfied by only that. They’ve either run out of patience and climbed on top, eager to thrust out an orgasm, or pushed my head into their lap.
Which… either is fine. I like both, but something about Cruce letting me do this to him—the most basic of sexual gratification—seems to imply his gratefulness for what little I’m offering.
He has no clue I’d offer him anything, but I’ll enjoy him exactly how I have him in this moment.
On an upstroke, I squeeze a little harder than usual.
Cruce hisses, “Fuck yes, Barrett. Just like that.”
So, I give it to him, just like that.
I jack him hard and fast, dragging my gaze from what I’m doing up to his face. It’s beautiful in the way it’s pinched and strained—as if he’s trying to hold off his orgasm, yet he’s desperately seeking it at the same time.
“Come for me, Cruce,” I murmur, and he snaps his eyes to mine. “Give it to me.”
“Fuck,” he barks as his back arches. Groaning, he starts to ejaculate all over my hand and his stomach. I stroke him through it, watching the milky white strands erupt as he moans out his release.
And damn… I may not have come, but I feel so fucking satisfied right now.
Cruce lets out a harsh breath as he lowers his hips to the mattress. I gently slide my hand up his still-hard length, then up so I can run my fingertips through the wetness on his stomach.
Should I cuddle with him? Put my head on his shoulder? Can I stroke his chest without him reading too much into the intimacy?
Should I say something? Like what? Thank you, that was awesome?
I have no chance to ponder these questions—well, insecurities—because Cruce rolls my way so fast I let out a yip of surprise. His mouth crashes down onto mine with a possessive ferocity I didn’t think should be possible after he just had a very satisfactory moment that’s still wet between us. Yet, he seems starved to claim me.
The kiss is so vastly different than the one we shared in his small apartment at the Jameson headquarters. That one was born of security and comfort.
Only one word comes to mind with this one—domination.
I roll to my back, submit, and let him take whatever he wants from my mouth. His tongue invades, laying total waste to me. Before I can even think to reciprocate, it’s gone.
His mouth is at my breasts now. Somehow, he has my sleep shirt hiked up to my throat. His teeth and tongue work at my nipples, and my hips shoot off the bed in response. Cruce’s large hand goes to my stomach, presses me down into the mattress, then shoves his hand into my sleep shorts.