Tex (Hell's Ankhor #5) - Aiden Bates Page 0,71

so our bare chests touched. The contact was electric. Jazz gasped into the kiss, and I carded my fingers through his hair, directing the kiss, and then skated my other hand down his chest, lower, lower, until my fingertips dipped under the waistband of his sweatpants.

Jazz shivered under my touch, and his abs jumped and tensed under my hand. “Tex, you don’t—you don’t have to—”

“I know,” I said. I kissed his jaw, then his neck, then the hollow of his throat. “I want to.”

Jazz swore again, then swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I slid my hand lower, over the fabric of his sweatpants, and palmed his cock.

Part of me had expected that despite the burning desire I felt for Jazz, the actual reality of the act—touching him, feeling another man in that way—would change things. I’d thought it might spark some flare of nerves or unsureness.

But everything was already so different. His kiss was harsher and hotter and hungrier than the women I’d been with, his body was different, the sounds he made were different. And they were better. Every difference to past experiences I’d had only made me want him more.

The newness heightened my desire.

I wrapped my hand tightly around the hard line of his cock in his sweatpants. God, it was thick, and heavy in my palm; I slid my hand slowly up the length of it to learn it better while Jazz tossed his head back against the pillow and gasped at the sensation.

Fuck, it was sexy. I palmed myself through my jeans roughly, just to take the edge off. Seeing Jazz biting his lip with pleasure, like he was trying to hold back his cries, sent a new rush of arousal through me. Knowing that I was the source of that expression was intoxicating.

I released him, only to slide my hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

No underwear. I gave him a look.

“What?” Jazz muttered. “I’m injured.”

I muffled my laugh into the crook of his neck and took his cock in hand.

“Fuck,” Jazz groaned. He scratched his nails through my hair, and then wrapped his arms around me, keeping me close.

“S’good?” I asked in between mouthing kisses on his neck, shoulder, pec, the occasional one with teeth. I fisted his cock slowly, savoring the softness of his skin, the heat, the wetness beading at the tip.

“Tease.” Jazz shifted on the bed like he wasn’t capable of staying still, silently urging me to move faster.

“Not teasing,” I argued. “Taking my time.”

“Take your time faster.”

I released my grip and Jazz made a sound that was extremely close to a whine. But then I moved my touch lower, over his balls, then further. Jazz’s whine turned into a surprised gasp.

“Can I?” I asked.

Jazz spread his legs. “I mean—I—have you ever?”

“Of course I have,” I said. “You think I’m a virgin?”

I don’t know how he managed to do it with my fingers where they were, but Jazz rolled his eyes. “With a guy, I mean.”

“Concept’s the same, isn’t it?” I didn’t push inside him, just rubbed the pads of my first two fingers over his entrance, and that alone made him keen.

“Fucking hell,” Jazz muttered. A pink flush built high in his cheeks. “Don’t fuck around.”

“I’m not.” To prove my point, I withdrew my hand only to divest us both of our pants, and then I crawled back on top of him, and suddenly we were skin-to-skin, and his cock was a hot line against my hip. I shivered and shifted my hips against his hips, rutting my cock against his.

The shock of pleasure was unlike anything I’d felt before—it started in my hips and shot up my spine like a column of flame. I hissed at the contact, and then worked a hand between us and stroked us both, my hand tight around our cocks.

Jazz clung to me and bit back a groan as he thrust into my hand. I kissed his neck, his shoulder, the corner of his jaw, until Jazz’s cock was wet with precum in my hand.

“Fucking stop it,” he murmured without any real anger behind it. “I’ll come like this if you don’t let up.”

“Is that so bad?” I slowed down my pace, though, and despite the request, it made Jazz hum with dissatisfaction.

“Yeah,” he said, “because I want you to fuck me for real.”

That competitive urge flared up in me again—he was egging me on, the same way he always had, to ride faster, fight harder. I reached over him and wrestled open the nightstand, rooting