Cruel Shame (Knights of Templar Academy #3) - Sofia Daniel Page 0,23

have shoved me away, but he stayed firm. He could also have wrapped an arm around my waist, but he let them remain slack at his sides.

My lips grazed his ears. “Do you want me to reach under that towel, wrap my fingers around that big, hard cock and stroke you to a shuddering climax?”

“How dare you—”

“This is my final offer,” I hissed.

“Yes.” The word came out a ragged exhale.

“Alright.” I slid my hand down his thigh and reached beneath the hem of his towel.

Warm air swirled around us, yet he shivered under my touch. My fingers trailed up his inner thigh, not stopping until I grazed his balls. They were plump and round and firm.

If we weren’t standing in the middle of a train hurtling toward London, and this was Maxwell or Orlando, I might have eased him onto the bed and spent some time sucking one after another while playing with that dick.

I glided over the lightly furred testicles and gripped him at the base of his erection.

Kendrick hissed through his teeth.

“Is this your first time?” I murmured into his ear.

“No,” he said in a tight voice. “My first was with a harpy who couldn’t keep her hands off me. Not even when she was asleep.”

“That doesn’t count.” I slid my fingers over smooth-as-velvet skin encasing a hard shaft of bumps and ridges and veins with an impossibly thick tip. He pulsed and expanded with every stroke, the exact size and shape as his twin, but infinitely more responsive.

Each slide, each slip, each caress of my hands over his flesh elicited the most delicious moans and pants and groans. Touching Kendrick was like playing an instrument that whimpered and shuddered at my command, and each of his responses filled me with pleasure.

He lasted longer than I had imagined for a first-timer, but then he’d probably finished himself off earlier in the shower.

I don’t remember ever getting so turned on by a simple hand job. Maybe it was the excitement of having gotten Kendrick to admit something, but I was so aroused and wet that it ached.

As I nipped and sucked his neck, Kendrick’s hips made gentle thrusts. I groaned, wishing it was me he was thrusting into. Shit, I wanted to lay him on his back and ride him to a gallop.

Kendrick’s large hands gripped my shoulders. “I’m going to spend.”

I ran my tongue along his neck. “Do it.”

His knees buckled, and he held onto the table for balance. I quickened my pace, stroking, teasing, squeezing that gorgeous, thick length until he imploded in my hands.

Kendrick slumped against me, breathing hard and trembling, his arm gripping me around the middle as though I was the only thing tethering him to the train.

My lips curled into a smile. In a twisted sort of way, this was one of the most exciting experiences of my life.

By the time Kendrick’s breath slowed to a steady pace and he drew back. I was ready to push him on the bed and prime him for another round.

He stared down at me with hard eyes. “If you’re expecting me to return the favor, think again.”

My nostrils flared, but I hid my reaction and gave him a gentle pat on the chest. “Don’t worry, Ken. That was a one-off.”

Kendrick flinched, the smugness in his features vanishing. For the first time since he’d started speaking to me, he didn’t have a single thing to say in response. Instead, he turned around and got dressed, leaving me wondering if he had expected me to melt into his arms.

He didn’t speak to me over breakfast, nor did he speak to me on the taxi-ride from the center of London to Richley.

Around nine in the morning, our black cab pulled into the courtyard of the shithole where I’d spent my first thirteen years, a 1930’s detached house with orange bricks on the ground floor and cream pebble dash cladding that extended to the roof.

When I was younger, it used to be a normal house with a door on the left that led to a staircase, but Billy Hancock built a two-story extension, creating Richley’s first mock Tudor mini-mansion. Now, a pair of bay windows curved on both sides of the front door, which boasted a new porch, complete with portico-style columns.

“This is your house?” Kendrick asked.

I met his puzzled features with a scowl. Sure, it was tacky as hell, and I much preferred the Victorian house where I lived with Sammy, but did Kendrick have to be such a