Page 70 of Himbo Hitman
This time, I do it on purpose.
He jerks my head upward before his wet tongue finds my collarbone and slides tortuously up my neck. When his lips dip back by my ear, his voice is huskier than before. “I could lick every single inch of you, and it wouldn’t be enough.”
Mentally, I’m imagining him doing just that. A roadmap of his mouth’s expedition as it passes over the most sensitive areas.
My grip on his hips tightens as St. Clare kisses his way along my jaw. He’s getting closer to my mouth, teasing the thing I want most, and when he’s a whisper away, I turn my head so his mouth lands on mine.
Sweet relief fills everything from my ears to my toes, and St. Clare groans at the contact. The sound is so deep in his chest it rumbles against mine, and I want to steal that sound from him and play it on repeat forever.
Unlike our first kiss—which was totally a kiss—the pressure of controlling it is taken away from me, and I’m able to enjoy it for what it is. The press of lips on lips. Soft and slow. Hard and fast. Slow and hard. Fast and soft. It’s an alternating explosion of sensations that hasn’t done anything to fill my curiosity and instead has exploded that curiosity into a million more tiny pieces. My brain isn’t big enough to hold all those pieces though. I barely have time to catch my thoughts as they bubble away into blissful nothingness. Nothing but his mouth and his hands on my shoulders, one of them scraping up the back of my neck to tangle in my hair andthe other dipping lower, resting over my chest, thumb gently flicking over my nipple in a way that tugs an embarrassingnrghfrom my throat.
He chuckles, lips smiling against mine before his tongue dips out to slide over my bottom lip. Without thinking, I suck it into my mouth.
St. Clare freezes, and then, with a bone-melting moan, his mouth crashes against mine. Deep and consuming, his kiss makes my toes curl over and my thumbs find that soft skin beside his hip bones as my grip on him anchors me to Earth. He holds me tighter, kisses me so deep that breathing becomes more of an optional thing. An optional thing that comes second to falling into the kiss and letting it destroy me.
My neck and cheeks are burning up, St. Clare’s grip on my hair tightening, reeling us closer like a fish caught helpless on a line, and when his cock nudges mine, my eyes roll back into my skull.
I’ve never been so willingly trapped before, and when St. Clare goes to back off, I grunt and pull him closer.
Through our underwear, our cocks line up. Dueling hardness seeking relief, which only gets worse as he ruts against me. His bare chest is hot through my shirt, and I wish that we were wearing one hundred percent fewer clothes, but the time it would take to remove them would be wasted. I don’t need to be naked to enjoy this, not when I already feel like I’m about to shoot off fucking fireworks.
I’m so blindingly out of control, and it’s almost an out-of-body experience. I urge him faster as he rocks against me, balls so damn tight I need relief, nipples driving me out of my mind every time my shirt rubs against them. Our kiss has turned sloppy, driven by pure need, and if this is the passion St. Clare was talking about, I’m happy to declare him fucking correct because our first kiss had none of this. Even though it was definitely, totally a kiss.
Finally, I get the courage to free my hands from where they’ve been planted and move them to skin. All that skin. Bare and smooth, a light dusting of blond hair over his chest and body burning up as much as I am. My hands rub up his back beforedropping again, sensory overload, holding him tight and making sure there isn’t a crack of distance between our bodies.
St. Clare’s teeth bury into my bottom lip, hard enough to bring out a choked-back cry but not hard enough to want him to stop. The light pain ripples through me and when he finally lets go, my head drops back, barely able to take any more.
His mouth moves to my neck instead. Prickling up every nerve in my body as he kisses and licks what feels like a live wire delivering impulses straight to my cock.
It’s not enough. It’s too much.
Each thought flitters through my empty brain, gone as fast as it hits, scrambled into more nonsense than has ever existed, and really, at this point, I’m not even completely sureIexist.
We’ve gone from kissing to sex in less time than I’ve had to think it through, and I’m glad for it. My brain gets in the way sometimes, making me do stupid shit that’s the complete opposite of what I want, and without it, this is so much easier. Because I’m letting myself have this moment without anything else trying to get in the way.
This. This is what I want.
St. Clare. On top of me. Sinful hips grinding confidently against mine, pulling so much precum from me that the material separating us is sticky.
“Ah, fuck,” I grunt into the dark room, and St. Clare answers me with a groan of his own.
My hands drop to his mouthwatering ass, and I thrust up against him.
What the fuck are even clothes at this point? All that exists is his mouth on my skin and his cock rubbing delicious friction right where I need it.
I stop holding back, stop trying to draw it out, just give in to the moment and let it take over. His panting, his tongue, the sweat building between our chests. The tight grip on my hair, making my eyes sting, as my fingers dig into his ass.
St. Clare thrusts against me, and I thrust against him, and mybrain is like water down a drain, swirling faster and faster, building to that final release.
A pleasant zapping fills the base of my spine, and I tremble against him.
“Close,” I pant. “Gonna … I’m gonna …”
“Me too, Perry.” His rasp is right by my ear.
The sound of my name in that deep, rough tone sets me off. The high hits, a stupidly brief moment of the greatest pleasure I’ve ever had, and almost as fast as it fills me, it disappears again.
St. Clare shudders against me, and it’s the weirdest fucking feeling, the way his cock throbs against mine. When it’s over, I want to ask him to do it again. And again.
