In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,28
and then sliding them down. He moans, lifting his hands up to cup my ass. We kiss again, these deep, long, exploratory kisses that feel like they go on for hours.
But in a good way. In a I never want this to end sort of way.
“This edible is amazing,” I breathe, and Zayd laughs, watching me curiously through the moonlight as I move back, putting my lips against the rock-hard lines of his abs. We’re in his bed, in his room, with the window open and a warm So Cal breeze stirring the curtains. I can hear people in the pool, but they’re pretty quiet, far away. They may as well be in another world.
My tongue slides along the edge of Zayd’s jeans, and then my fingers are popping his fly. I look up at him as I take his shaft in my hand.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers, but then he only lets me get so far as a single lick before he grabs me by the wrist and pulls me up toward his face. “Not when you’re high, not for our first time.” Zayd kisses me again and then flips me over, his tongue swirling around mine, his inked fingers sliding between my thighs. He touches one to my heat, and I gasp, curling my fingers around his shoulders. He doesn’t even put them in, just uses my own wetness to tease and stroke me, bringing me to a warm, shuddering orgasm that reminds me very much of Creed.
Immediately, my eyes feel heavy, and I sigh as Zayd grins and kisses me again, his lip rings making my mouth tingle.
“Sleep well, Charity. We’ll see about finishing this up in the morning.”
Zayd relaxes next to me, and the last thing I remember is seeing his inked fingers curl around the base of his cock.
After that, it’s nothing but dreams until the sun comes up.
There’s a stage set up about a half mile from the house, and despite the heat, people start lining up before the party even really ends. There are students draped over couches and lying in piles on the floor, most of them hungover or still a little bit stoned. But if they want a good spot in the crowd, they better get up now because the entry line stretches as far as the eye can see.
“You really are famous, huh?” I ask Zayd, glancing over my shoulder as he slips into a white tank with his band logo on the front. It says Afterglow in scrawling cursive with a half-moon, half-sun behind it, gleaming around the edges with, well, a glow.
He flashes me that cocky smile of his.
“Yeah, well, maybe just a little.” He moves over to stand beside me, and I feel myself blushing when I remember my tongue meeting up with his, uh, well … if I’m not mature enough to say it, then I’m not mature enough to do it: his dick. I almost gave my first blow job last night. “I’m heading over with the band soon to greet some of the headliners, but there’ll be golf carts and some backstage passes waiting for you.” Zayd stands up and splays a palm out on his chest, his sea green hair gleaming in the early morning sunshine. The wicked heat of the day hasn’t quite crept in yet, so it’s still cool enough to be pleasant. “And I’m such a nice guy, I even included extras for your other boyfriends.”
“Nice guys don’t say that they’re nice guys,” I tell him, and he smiles, leaning in to pen me against the door with an arm on either side, the cluster of guitar pic necklaces he’s slipped around his neck swinging forward in the space between us.
“Nah, you’re right: I’m a total asshole. Here’s the thing though …” Zayd pauses and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I like you enough to try. So,” he stands back up and folds his muscular arms over his chest. “Here’s me, trying. Probably failing, but at least the effort’s there.”
“You’re doing great,” I tell him, feeling my cheeks flush. “I mean, as long as you’re being yourself. If you’re an asshole, you’re an asshole. Just don’t be a bully.”
“If I were doing great,” Zayd says, pausing as he notices Creed working his way over to us in low-slung sweats, a towel flung over his wet blond hair. “Your tongue wouldn’t have even touched the tip.”
“Touched the tip of what?” Creed snaps, but then Zayd is just laughing