Play It Again Page 4

  My head snaps up and my eyes fly open. Yep. It’s his dick all right. In my hand. I’ve never held a guy’s dick before, obviously. It’s thick and heavy and pointing straight up, pressed against his belly and leaking precum on his rippled abs.

  I don’t know what the hell he was worried about. He’s got absolutely no reason to be self-conscious. He may not have the insane definition of a dancer’s body—hell, few people do, and it’s nearly impossible to maintain—but it’s obvious he works out. His stomach is flat, his biceps are firm, and his thighs and calves are toned and taut.

  And his goddamn cock is a thing of beauty. Long and pink and smooth, capped with a mushroom head that I’m dying to put my lips around. Without really thinking about it, my fingers form a tight circle and I give it a long, slow stroke.

  “That’s it.” He thrusts up into my hand. “Harder. Don’t be afraid to be a little rough.”

  I hesitate, my grip on him loosening. The polar opposite of what he asked for. But never having done this before, I’m overly cautious. I know how I like to be touched, but I’m not sure how that translates into me touching another dude’s dick. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He reaches down and closes his hand around mine. His cock throbs, hot and hard in my fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell you if it’s too much. I want to watch you jack me off.”

  Who am I to deny the man what he wants? I slide my hand down his shaft, over the head and back to the base. And because I like having my balls played with, I decide to go lower, cupping his in my palm and squeezing.

  His already dark eyes grow even darker as he lifts his hips to make it easier for me to fondle him. “Keep that up and I won’t last long.”

  “No fair. You’re not allowed to come. Not before I taste you.”

  I lean over and touch my lips to the tip of his dick. My tongue flicks the slit that runs down the middle, and I get my first taste of guy goo. It’s warm and slightly salty, like saltwater taffy.

  My first thought is how easily I could become addicted to it, a prospect that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. My second is that I don’t care how fucking frightening it is, there’s no way I’m leaving this apartment without returning the favor and swallowing everything he has to give me.

  “Cocktease.” David nudges his hips upward again, lifting his fine ass off the couch. “Stop torturing me and suck it already.”

  He doesn’t have to ask me twice. “Your command is my wish.”

  His cock is stiff and dripping. For me. I brush my lips across the head and rub the shaft against my cheek, teasing him one last time with my five o’clock shadow before I open wide and put him out of his misery.

  “Fuck,” he moans. “Need this. Need you.”

  His words make my heart happy, and my lips curve into a smile around his dick. I suck him in deeper and deeper, trying to fit his entire length into my mouth. I can’t quite get there. Yet.

  But he doesn’t seem to mind my lack of experience. I must be doing something right because he comes in mere minutes, bucking and writhing and muttering incoherently as he floods my mouth with the saltwater taffy taste of his orgasm.

  When he’s done, I raise my head and plant a kiss in the middle of his sweat-dampened chest, where a fine trail of dark hair bisects his abs. David reciprocates, kissing my collarbone, then gathers me to him and stretches out on the couch, taking me down with him. His arms band around me and he buries his face in my neck.

  Wow. David’s a snuggler. Who knew?

  Fortunately, so am I. We lie there, legs tangled, holding each other as our panting subsides and our heart rates return to normal, and it’s fucking heaven. I’m so blissed out I don’t even care that his couch really isn’t big enough for the two of us and I’ll probably wind up with a stiff neck and sore back.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs against my throat. “I should have warned you I was about to blow.”

  Apology totally unnecessary. He’s crazy if he thinks he’s getting any complaints from me. It wasn’t like a warning was going to change anything. He blew exactly where I wanted him to blow.

  “It’s okay.” My words are slow and slurred. Now that we’ve both gotten off, exhaustion is starting to creep in. “I didn’t mind.”

  He nuzzles the spot behind my ear and inhales. Did he just sniff me? I hope I smell like Nautica Voyage and not postcoital funk.

  “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he asks. “You’re awfully good for a novice.”

  “I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I had.”

  “I’m pretty sure you would, too.”

  He chuckles, and the sound reverberates through me, making my heart swell like the Grinch’s when he finally figures out the true meaning of Christmas. If the sex was mind-blowing—and it was—this—the after-sex cuddling and pillow talk is something even bigger. It’s soul-shaking.

  My eyelids droop as I relax into him, fighting to suppress a yawn. But it’s a losing battle. As much as I want to stay awake and savor every second tangled up with David, exhaustion is winning this one, hands down.

  I feel his fingertips skate over my jawline, through the long-past-five-o’clock stubble that dots my face. “You know, my bed is way bigger. And way more comfortable.”

  “I’ll bet,” I murmur, not opening my now fully closed eyes.

  “Wanna move this party to the bedroom?”

  “Okay.”

  But that doesn’t happen. We fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in each other.

  Eventually, we make it to the bed. There are more blow jobs, and at one point David gets bold enough to slip a finger between my ass cheeks, penetrating me with the tip. The sensation is unfamiliar but not unpleasant. A slight burn that gradually morphs into a kind of pleasure I’ve never felt before.

  After a few minutes, he starts to slowly work it in further, even adding another finger to the mix. My thigh muscles tremble and I push against him, wanting more. But no matter how much I beg him, he won’t fuck me.

  “Not yet,” he says. Again. “You’re not ready to bottom. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Then let me fuck you,” I demand.

  He flips over on his stomach so fast I burst out laughing. That’s another thing I didn’t expect. Sex with David isn’t just hot. It’s hysterical. We laugh as much as we moan. There’s a comfort level between us that five years apart hasn’t tempered. It makes the sex easy. Fun. Like riding a bike, but with orgasms.

  I mimic how he touched me, sliding a finger down his crease, then stop. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. And just like he doesn’t want to hurt me, I don’t want to hurt him. “You’re going to have to talk me through this.”

  “There’s lube in the top drawer of the nightstand.” He sticks his ass up in the air and wiggles it temptingly. As if I need any additional enticement to tap that. “And condoms.”

  I spend the next half hour learning how David likes to be fucked. First with one finger, then two. Finding his prostate, watching his face contort and hearing his sexy whimpers and moans. He grinds his ass against my probing finger, trying to fuck it, and pride swells my chest. Whatever I’m doing, I must be doing it right.

  Then, finally, it’s my dick inside him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle and burying myself in that fine ass of his. Fuck, it’s tight. The pressure is beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. He’s like a hot, wet vise, squeezing me into next week.

  It’ll be a miracle if I last more than a few strokes. But I’m going to give it the old college try.

  I bend down, covering his body with mine, and start to move.

  “Wait.” The word is like a pinprick to my stupid pride. Maybe I’m not so great at this after all. “Flip me over. I wanna look at you when you’re fucking me.”

  Just like that, my pride is restored. He wants to watch me. Gaze into my eyes while I make love to him. Because that’s what I’ll be doing. Making love. This is no fast, forgettable fuck for me. And I’m starting to think maybe it�
�s not for him, either. “Uh, yeah. I’d like that, too.”

  We switch positions so he’s on his back with me looming above him, braced on my palms, one on either side of his head. “You ready?”

  He nods, his sex-mussed hair drooping into his eyes. He’s so goddamn beautiful, helpless underneath me, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy with undisguised lust. “I’ve been ready since the first time I saw you.”

  Holy hell. He talks as pretty as he looks. If I’m not back inside him in the next thirty seconds, I might die. I grab my iron-hard cock and position myself at his entrance. “Sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

  “Better late than never,” he says, a bemused smile curving the corners of his full, kissable lips. It takes me a second to get the joke. Then I remember. It’s the same thing I said to him when I asked him out.

  “Told you so.” The tip of my dick nudges his hole.

  “Come on, ballet boy. Do it.”

  I ease in. Just the head at first, then I’m all the way in, teasing him with slow, easy strokes.

  “Faster,” he pleads, wrapping his legs around my back and sneaking a hand between us to search for his cock.

  I slap his hand away. “Nice try, but I don’t need any help. I’m making you come.”

  “Then do it already.”

  I curl my fingers around his shaft and give it a quick, hard pump just as I thrust back into him. He’s right. It’s better this way. Face to face, I get the full force of his expressions. The way he bites his lip to keep from crying out. The strain on his handsome features. The sweat dampening his brow.

  He’s close, and so am I. Just like when he blew me on the couch, I want to hold off my release, but that would be like asking the Patriots not to win the Super Bowl.

  My orgasm is relentless. It rips through me, red-hot and pulsing, like a series of power surges, and I empty myself inside him, still jerking him off.

  David follows right after me, drenching my fingers with his sticky seed. He comes for what seems like forever. When he’s finally still, I collapse next to him with a low, drawn-out groan.

  He throws one leg over my hip, pinning our sweaty bodies together. We lay like that for a while, not speaking, just clinging to each other, until David finally breaks the silence. “So what’s the verdict?”

  “What verdict?”

  “Doing a dude. Was it all you’d hoped it would be?”

  It was. That and more. But I’m not sure he’s ready for me to confess my undying love for him after one roll in the hay, so I just kiss his damp neck. Fuck, I love the taste of him. I was right about him being addictive.

  Hi, my name is Chris, and I’m a David-aholic.

  “Ten out of ten stars,” I say, kissing him again.

  We return to our companionable postorgasm silence. After a few minutes, David rolls away from me and heads for the adjoining bathroom, and my mind immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion.

  “Do you want me to go?” I call after him, propping myself up on one elbow.

  “Only if you want to,” he says, coming back into the room with two towels. He tosses one to me and wipes his abs with the other. “Thought you might like to clean up.”

  “Oh.” I sit up and run the towel over my stomach and groin. “Thanks.”

  He drops his towel and climbs back into bed. “It’s still early. We could catch a few more hours of sleep. Maybe grab some breakfast when we wake up. If that works for you.”

  “Yeah, that works.” As much as I’d like to stay like this for the next ten or twenty years or so, I have to go back to San Fran tomorrow. But my flight’s not until late afternoon, so I’ll settle for breakfast. For now.

  I toss my towel onto the floor and lie down next to him. He nudges me onto my side so my back is to his chest. Then he wraps an arm around my waist and strokes lazy circles on my stomach with his hand. And we’re still that way when we drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  David

  “All right, that’s it. I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.”

  Denice, my favorite waitress, sits her ass down on the piano bench next to me. The boss glares at her from behind the bar, but she waves him off. It’s a slow night. The handful of current patrons are contentedly sipping their cocktails. And if anyone else comes in, she’ll see them from here.

  “Since when have you ever kept your mouth shut?” I mutter.

  “I heard that.” She sticks her tongue out at me. Very ladylike. Very mature. Totally Denice. “And you’ll pay for it later. But right now, I want to know what’s going on with you. Spill.”

  “Spill what?” I ask as I launch into a new song. Carole King. Not my usual jam, but I’m feeling a little maudlin.

  “The reason you’re depressed.”

  What the actual fuck? Is Denice a mind reader? Or have I been that obvious? “Who says I’m depressed?”

  “You do, that’s who.” She elbows me in the ribs. Hard. That’s the kind of relationship we’ve got. She’s like the annoying but lovable little sister I never had.

  Me being the professional I am, I don’t miss a beat, my hands continuing to fly across the keys, a blur of black and white under my fingers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She gives me a sympathetic side-eyed look. “‘Ain’t No Sunshine.’ ‘Home.’ ‘You’re So Far Away.’ It’s obvious from your song selection that you’re missing someone.”

  That’s the understatement of the year. Maybe even the decade. It’s been two weeks since Chris blew back into my life like a Category 5 hurricane. Two of the longest weeks of my young life.

  True, it’s not like he blew in and then blew back out again without a trace. It doesn’t look like he’s planning on ghosting me this time around. We’ve kept in touch, even after he jetted back to the Left Coast the day after we hooked up. There have been hundreds of texts, almost daily phone calls, even a couple of very memorable—and very dirty—Skype chats. And we’ve talked about getting together again soon, either on his side of the continent or mine.

  But none of that is enough when you’ve finally found—or refound, I guess would be more accurate—the right guy. The one you’ve known you wanted to spend the rest of your life with pretty much since the day you laid eyes on him. I defy anyone who doesn’t believe in love at first sight to convince me otherwise.

  “Hello.” Denice raps on my head with her fist. “Earth to David.”

  “Don’t you have customers to take care of?” I ask, knowing full well she’s got everything under control.

  “Not at the moment.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and scoots closer to me, practically forcing me off the bench. “Is this about that hottie who came to hear you play? You’ve been brooding ever since you disappeared into the alley with him.”

  She noticed? I should have counted on that. I thought we were pretty discreet, but sometimes Denice is way too observant for her own good. It’s a great quality for a waitress. Not so great when you’re trying to fly under her radar.

  “Of course I noticed,” she says with another hair flip. Damn. I didn’t realize I said that aloud. So much for keeping my inner monologue on the inside. “You hate having visitors while you’re working. But you made an exception for him. I figured he must be someone special.”

  I can’t stop my fingers from slipping on the keyboard this time, producing a discordant mess for a hot second. I hate keeping secrets from my friends. But how am I supposed to tell Denice about Chris when I’m not even sure where I stand with him? And how are he and I supposed to maintain a relationship—if that’s even what this is—when we’re 3,000 miles apart?

  I’ve got lots of questions, but no answers. So I say nothing, regain my composure, and muddle my way through the last bars of Carole’s haunting melody. I’m not singing, but that doesn’t stop the lyrics from echoing in my head.

  And it doesn’t help to know you’re so far away.

  Yeah, you’re so far away.

  Denic
e is right. It’s damn depressing. The end of the song is greeted with scattered applause from the sparse crowd, and I purposely choose a more upbeat song—“Copacabana”—for my next number. That ought to throw her off track. Plus, I need the practice. Rumor has it the Barry Manilow jukebox musical’s looking for a new pianist. I’m going to drop off my resume at the stage door in the morning.

  “Nice try,” she says, not falling for my diversionary tactic for one second. “But you’re not getting out of this that easily. It’s going to take more than a change of tempo to distract me.”

  But thankfully that’s all she gets the chance to say because a group of six walks in and sits down at a table in the corner. Probably the start of the after-theater crowd if their cocktail dresses and sports coats—and the Playbills in their hands—are anything to go by.

  Denice stands with a resigned sigh. “I mean it. My shift will be over when your last set’s done. We can grab a few drinks and an order of nachos supreme at Macho Taco. And you can tell me all about your mystery man.”

  “We’ll see,” I hedge, focusing on my playing to avoid meeting her eyes. Otherwise, she’ll know the excuses I’m about to hand her are complete bullshit And she’s already seen through me enough for one night. “I’m kind of tired. And I’ve got a lot of stuff to catch up on at home.”

  “Like what?” she calls over her shoulder as she heads off to wait on the new arrivals. “Organize your sock drawer?”

  “My sock drawer is a work of art.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  The familiar, very masculine voice doesn’t belong to Denice. Now my fingers don’t just slip. They stall, and the music stalls with them. I look up from the keyboard to see Chris, lounging against the piano like he’s about to belt out a torch song.

  “Chris. You’re . . . here.”

  Real smooth, ex-lax. But it’s the best my mouth can manage. Hell, I’m shocked it managed that. Chris is back. Looking motherfucking mouthwatering in slim-fit jeans and a lavender polo shirt that brings out the green in his hazel eyes. It’s enough to render a man speechless.