“I didn’t tell you to do that. Now touch your hole.”
“Oh god,” I whisper and immediately obey. The first touch makes me groan and shove my crotch towards him.
“Open your legs wider. Hook them over the chair’s arms.”
I bite my lip and do as he says.
His smile is humourless and full of a dark lust that seems to beat through my own body. “Look at you, Wes. Like a little slut with your legs spread where anyone can see.” I moan, and he steps closer. “Finger your hole.”
I trail my finger over my pucker, and the nerve endings spark and sizzle.
“Now slide it in.”
Despite the copious amounts of sex we’ve been having lately, my finger stings and burns as I insert it into my dry hole. But somehow the sensation is just what I need, and Cormac knows it. And he can see that I’ve become harder than ever.
The cool air from the open window drifts across my balls and hole, as my finger begins a slow thrust and retreat at my hole, while I continue to pinch my nipple with my other hand. I spread my legs a little wider, enjoying giving him a show, feeling slutty and so fuckinggood.
Within moments, I’m humping my finger in earnest and my nipples are becoming red and sore. I hear a sharp intake of breath and my gaze flickers to Cormac.
He shakes his head. His expression is disapproving, but his eyes gleam. “Someone in that flat over there is probably watching you right now,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “They’re watching you fuck yourself on your finger, your hair wild and all that golden skin gleaming in the sunshine. You look like you’re dusted in gold.” His face is set and hard, red flags of colour rising across his sharp cheekbones. “Another finger,” he commands.
I hasten to do as he says, pushing another finger in and bearing down against it, the burn lighting me up.
“Gently,” he adds. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“Maybe I want to.” I bite my lips.
He stands still for a second, and then he moves, walking behind the chair where I’m sitting. I try to turn but he snaps, “Face forward,” and I obey.
I shove my fingers in and out, crooking one to feel the swollen nub of my prostate. Fireworks spark behind my eyes, my balls tingle, and I whine. It’s good, but it’s not enough. There’s the click of a cap opening behind me, and I sob out something—a plea for him to help me, to take over.
Then he’s bending over me. “Stop touching yourself,” he orders.
I’m close and chasing the feeling, so I hump into my fingers again. He smacks my fingers away, and I cry out, the sting on my cock lighting me up inside.
“Naughty,” he chides.
“I need it,” I gasp. “I need?—”
“I know what you need.” One arm wraps around my shoulders as he leans over me. His hair tickles my cheek, and I watch as his other hand skims down my chest, caressing the skin. His fingers are wet with lube, leaving sticky trails that gleam in the sunshine.
His hand cups my balls, and I arch into his touch. One finger dips, tracing the skin of my perineum. The damp, hot touch makes me freeze, and then I cry out as he slides two fingers into me. As his fingertip brushes my prostate, I no longer care what I look like to the outside world. I don’t care what anyone thinks. Fuck anyone who judges me, because I’m the lucky one who’s naked, legs forced open, being fingered relentlessly by his dream man. My cock jumps and bobs, leaving sticky precome on my belly and pubic hair.
He pushes another finger in, and I grunt. His head is next to mine, and he’s looking down, focused on the movement of his fingers. He catches me off guard when he looks up, and our eyes meet. I lean in, and our mouths connect instantly and deeply. We eat at each other’s lips, saliva coating them and hot breaths clogging the air between us. And all the while he continues to finger me—teasing strokes where he brushes my prostate, coupled with harder thrusts that stretch me open.
“Please,” I whine unashamed to beg. “Please, Mac. I need it. I need it so bad.”
I’m practically sobbing by now, and he gives a sudden snarl.
“Get up and lean over the chair,” he commands, withdrawing his fingers.
I’m up in a flash, leaning over the back of the chair, feeling the fabric rub my aching, neglected cock. Sweat dampens my hair and skin.
“Fuck,” I say, rutting in a fast rhythm. Then I cry out as he slaps my arse. “God, do that again,” I breathe, and he does—three quick slaps before rubbing the hot skin, turning the sharp pain into a blossoming ache. “I love that,” I slur and wriggle my arse impatiently. “Fuck me.”
“Are you in charge?” he says silkily.
I gulp. “No.”
