Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Tart,” he whispered into the phone. “Salty…warm. So warm.”
“I’ll have to taste for myself soon.” Sultry, rough at the edges, that accented lilt swirled around him with hypnotic eroticism. “I don’t have much time, sweet boy. And I want to hear you come. Come for me while you’re licking yourself off your fingers, Vic.”
“Yes.” Fuck, his voice was breaking, but he didn’t care. “Yes, Master.”
“Very good, sweet boy,” Amani said, and it was almost enough to tip him over the edge.
Yet even if time was short, he wanted to savor just a moment longer—savor as he ran his fingers over his dripping cock again, coating them in clear glistening liquid, even as he gripped the shaft hard with his other hand, squeezing until even more dripped out and he could catch those falling runnels in his palm. It hurt, it hurt like biting teeth and ripping loss, but the pain was luscious and perfect and driving him to a mindless and desperate edge, as he licked his palm and sucked his fingers and dragged his hand over the full length of his cock, making a tight sheath of his fingers. Every stroke, he lifted his hips up to slam his cock into that sheath, slickness and friction melting together to swallow him in heat, to rake him over with pleasure that seemed to have come alive, this savage and hungry thing ripping at him until he bled desire, bled hunger, bled every moan he couldn’t stop from slipping past his lips as he traced his lips over the full length of his fingers, licked them, imagined they were a flared head and a ridged shaft and a cock as strainingly hard as his own.
Amani was wordless on the other end of the line, but not silent—his breaths loud, uneven, harsh, now and then a soft, broken sound escaping, until it felt as though Amani was watching him, could somehow see him, drinking in this thing that Vic did for him and him alone. And when he stroked himself harder, as that hungry thing tore another piece out of him to leave him shredded inside, arching, spreading his thighs wide to roll his entire body into each begging, frantic thrust…
It was Amani’s whisper of “Come for me, sweet boy” that broke him entirely.
He couldn’t stop the cry that choked from his lips, ringing over the office, as he curled forward sharply, almost dropping the phone. His cock jerked and bucked in his hand as if fighting his grip, and the pulses that ripped through him felt as if they tore his desire out at its roots, ripping it away from him as come spilled from him to gush over his hand in a fountaining mess, emptying him of that tense, tormenting feeling to leave him spent and sagging and struggling for breath.
“Did you enjoy that, pet?”
Eyes fluttering half open, Vic slumped forward, resting his overheated cheek to the cool desk. “…a little too much,” he managed, voice hoarse. “I’m a damned mess.”
“I wish I could see it.”
“Yeah,” Vic whispered. “I wish you could too.”
Amani didn’t answer, but in that absence was a powerful ache, pulling at Vic—a siren song pulling him toward Amani, a near-obsessive desire to just…be with him.
“Amani?” he asked tentatively. “Can I ask you something about…this?”
“Always, Vic.”
“Is it normal?” he asked. “Is it normal for a submissive to not be able to think about anything but their Dom?”
“I don’t know,” Amani answered softly. “I’ve never…been in that situation with anyone before.”
“Can I see you again tonight? After your evening classes?”
“Vic…” Hesitation, but something else, too. Something that seemed as broken and lonely as this feeling inside Vic right now, that something was missing and he would lose himself completely if he didn’t find it.
“You can cuff me,” he offered. “Collar me.”
“I only collar what I intend to keep.”
“So…cuffs.” As if that reminder hadn’t struck him with a viper’s lash; that reminder that Amani had no intention of keeping him. He closed his eyes again, pressing his face harder into the desk. “Just for a little while, Amani. I’m still shaky, and I just…” His voice broke. “It helps to see you.”
“For a little while,” Amani conceded—then broke off with an almost panicked sound as a feminine voice drifted over the line. “Shit, my mother found me,” he gasped. “Gotta go!”
Then the line was dead, leaving Vic slouched over his desk with his trousers around his thighs and his hand covered in come and his cock ridiculously fucking sore.
He turned his face into the desk, pressed his nose into the wood, and just burst into helpless, tired laughter.
“God damn it,” he muttered. “Just…God damn it.”
l
AMANI WAS GLAD HE’D CHOSEN a fitting room to hide in—giving him a few more moments to compose himself, to try to calm the flush in his cheeks and at least arrange his loose caftan top to conceal his arousal in its sway and flow. Thank goodness he’d changed before going out shopping, putting on something a little more voluminous, with more folds for concealment: an open-front, belted floor-length caftan in soft blue gauze, almost translucent, strewn throughout with tiny motes of silver to make stars on night. He arranged the matching sash holding it closed, smoothed it over his chest, turned to make sure he wasn’t particularly obvious, then stepped outside to find his mother.