Boy in the Club a boy & billionaire novel - Rachel Kane Page 0,62
the battle. I reach over and grab his hands, and pull him, hard.
I force him over to me. Once he’s close enough, I’ve got my hands on his trunk, and I’m lifting him up like he weighs nothing. I put him straight on my lap. His ass is on my cock, pressing it down beneath us. I’m so hard it hurts.
His shoulders are soft and I kiss them. They’re wet and I kiss them, kiss their warmth, the mineral saltiness of the spring water beading on his skin. With my hand I am touching his chest, reaching around to press the flat of my hand against his ribs, feeling the layer of muscle there, feeling too the soft slickness of scar tissue.
That was, after all, what had drawn me to him to begin with.
That strange scar.
The scar that he had to lie about.
I should ask him right now. Tell him to tell me the truth about it. It’s an outrage that he would lie. It makes me furious, except this isn’t fury, it’s lust, and knowing there’s some part of him he’s keeping closed off from me makes me that much hotter, that much more determined to wrest every secret from him.
My fingers play over his nipples, feeling their pebble-hardness. He sighs but it is not a relaxed sigh. It’s an agitated, bothered sigh, the sigh of a man whose ass needs a cock deep inside of it, and that is why he is writhing against me, the crack of his ass sliding back and forth over the length of my prick, teasing me, as though I could plunge into him here, with no lube. Oh, I would. I definitely would. I would pound him and hurt him and I would enjoy every minute of it, but I won’t let him control this. I am in charge.
If that is the case then why does my heart feel so wild and out of control?
Why does my entire body feel so energized that at any moment I might rise up out of this tub and run for twenty miles, burning every molecule of energy inside myself, like I’m a reactor, like I’m fusion, like I’m a burning star.
There are his ribs, and there is his belly, so flat, but not one of those hard washboards you can’t do anything with except run your fingers over the ridges like some hard-to-play musical instrument. I hate eight-packs. I almost want to laugh at the ridiculousness of that thought coming into my head at this moment. I want to whisper it to him.
“You’re soft,” I say.
He tenses his belly. “I—”
“No. No, I like it. I could come on your belly, would you like that? Could come on your chest, on your face—”
His hand is on my hand, pressing it downward.
“I’m not soft,” he murmurs against me, leaning his head back until we are cheek to cheek, and I kiss the ridge of bone and the softness of skin and the curve of his ear.
He is not soft. I know that when his hand guides me to his cock.
There are a thousand things we could ask of one another, except we’re both wordless once I touch him. He’s so ready. I wish suddenly that I hadn’t pulled him into my lap, I wish I could suck on him instead, taste that cum I’d tasted only one time ever before, and I’m so hard thinking that, my cock pulses, and I can hear him laugh—a quiet laugh, a whisper-laugh—deep inside his throat, and he adjusts, wriggling, until my cock pops up from between his thighs, red and hard, and he squeezes his thighs together.
I could die like this.
I could.
My soul—I don’t even have a soul, but I can feel it trying to leave my body.
I let go of his cock and just feel. My body slips down further into the tub, and he’s doing something with his legs, squeezing, lifting, lowering…
He’s fucking me with his thighs.
I want to watch. I want to see my cock as it’s caught between his legs, want to see as it rubs against his soft sack, the head of my cock bumping against the base of his.
He feels that. He gasps. It’s like I’m inside him even though I’m not.
I have to reach back around. I have to touch him, I have to share this.
It’s such a lazy feeling, and the hot water makes it even lazier. You can’t have some power-fuck in this spring water, you can’t do some porno-pounding.