I snort. “You should be the one taking care of it, asshole. You caused it.”
He stares at me and then shifts on his feet, those fingers tapping a rhythm on his thighs.
And then he’s stalking toward me, and I stumble back, the back of my legs hitting the end of the bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, and he doesn’t say a word, just cups me.
That hand of his iscupping my junk, and I nearly pass out.
And then he squeezes, and I can’t breathe.
“I always take responsibility for the problems I create,” he says, and then his thumbs hook into the waistband of my sweats, and he tugs them out and down until my cock is bobbing and straining between us
“Oh fuck,” I hiss as he wraps those long, soft fingers around my thick length.
The sight of it, his hand on my weeping cock is obscene. I’ve never had a guy touch me there. Never. And for some reason, I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight.
He slowly moves his hand, and I have to grip something before I topple over. Sparks shoot up through my abdomen, and my nipples harden painfully. My hands scramble to find something to hold onto so I don’t fall over, and I grab onto Whit’s shoulder, holding onto it for dear life.
And he works me expertly, that hand sliding up and down, fucking me with his fist.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I can’t tear my eyes away. I’m just watching him move his wrist up and down.
How is this so good. This shouldn’t be so good. It’s a guy….Whit….
His eyes meet mine, and then without warning, my hips jerk, my balls draw up, and I’m coming, shooting my load all over him.
It’s an obscene amount of come. It goes on for ages and coats his hand and the bottom of his shirt. There’s so much it drips onto the floor. I can hear it splattering between us.
And when it’s finally over, I feel my entire body heat.
“That was…fast,” Whit says, still gripping my softening cock.
“Don’t say another word,” I grumble. “It’s been a while, okay?” I close my eyes and inhale deeply through my nose. “Let go of me, Whit.”
Those long fingers unwrap from around me, and he takes a step back. He’s coated in me. He smells like my release.
My cock twitches. My eyes slide up and down his rigid body, and I see the front of his pants are tighter than usual. Oh fuck.He liked that.
“Thought I wasn’t your type,” I rasp, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“I’m going to go wash.”
Then Whit disappears into the bathroom, and I’m left to clean up the mess I made.
He returns a little while later, a new shirt on but wearing the same pajama pants he had on earlier.
I’m sprawled out on the little bed, feeling slightly embarrassed that I came so quickly and more relaxed than I have any right to be.
I should be freaking out over the fact that a guy just got me off, but I don’t honestly care.
That was the best hand job of my life.
And apparently, just seeing Whit again is making my cock ready for a second round.
Would he go for it? I know I’m not his type, but he wouldn’t have done that unless he wanted to, right?