Alpha: Omega Part 5

I waited another moment, drawing it out. Then, keeping my eyes on his, I pulled his shaft away from his body, tilted my head to the side, and took him into my mouth. He sucked in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, chest swelling, jaw tensing and flexing as he watched his d.i.c.k slide between my lips. Back away, bend closer, take him deeper, let him almost slip out...I matched the rhythm to the pace of his breathing, faster and faster and faster, until I was bobbing almost frantically.

And then I stopped, and Roth groaned. He'd never apply force or pressure, but his grip on my hair tightened.

I let his saliva-glistening member pop free of my mouth, and then, eyes on his, moving slowly, deliberately, I licked him from root to tip, pressing my tongue so it was wide and flat against the veined flesh. As I reached the apex, I took him back into my mouth and this time wrapped my fingers around him just beneath my mouth and stroked him with both at once. I took him to the back of my throat, and then I added my other hand around the base-G.o.d, I'd never get over how huge his c.o.c.k was, how perfect, that I could fit both hands and my mouth around him and still have room to move, that I had to stretch my lips and jaw around him, that my fingertips didn't quite meet when I gripped him with my fist.

I began moving slowly, then. Torturously slowly, gliding down with my mouth, stroking with both hands, pulling upward so just the soft and springy head of his c.o.c.k was in my mouth, and then I began sucking. Fists moved, sliding up and down, faster and faster.

Harder and harder.

And then slower. I removed my mouth, pulled him away, looked up at him, maintaining eye contact as I stroked him hand over fist, smearing my saliva and his leaking pre-come all over his c.o.c.k. He groaned again, fisting my hair even harder, so the roots tugged. He was close, then.

I jacked him with one hand, the tip of his c.o.c.k at my lips, kissing, licking, sucking, a gentle careful sc.r.a.pe of the teeth, and then he was flexing his hips and clenching his teeth to keep from making too much noise.

"Just your mouth, love. Give me your hands." His voice was an unexpected rumble.

I reached up and he took my hands in his, cupping my small ones in his much larger paws. I rested my cheek against his stomach and slid lower, closer, and let his c.o.c.k slide into my mouth. Sucked. Bobbed. Paused to lick the tip and flick my tongue against the hole at the very apex, tasting the smoky essence. And then bobbed lower and took as much of him as I could, setting no rhythm.

And then he was rasping in his throat and his hips were flexing, and I knew it was time to stop playing with him and make him come.

I tugged one of my hands free from his grip and cupped his sac in my palm, slid my middle finger against his taint and pressed in. His breath caught, and I began f.u.c.king with him my mouth in earnest, now, no finesse or technique, just my lips and tongue on his throbbing c.o.c.k, faster and faster.

I pressed harder with my finger, slid it a little further back, earning a grunt of surprise from him. He didn't protest, though, so I pushed yet farther, until I was right there, tip of my middle finger pressed against his a.s.shole and he was fighting to relax, wanting to tense, but not allowing himself. I found the center of the knot of muscle and pressed, slid the tip of my finger in, and he groaned helplessly, his muscles going limp even as his hips flexed and stayed taut.

All the while, I was going down on him, not hard or fast, but with a consistent rhythm. He wanted it faster, wanted it harder. But I didn't give that to him. My goal wasn't to make him come quickly, but intensely, and to that end drawing it out as long as possible was best.

He was close, though; I could feel it, taste it.

And I wanted it. I wanted to taste him. I wanted to feel him let loose, feel him take his pleasure in my mouth.

Until Roth, giving b.l.o.w.j.o.bs was something that was just...a thing. Not a bad thing, or a good thing, just something one did as a routine part of s.e.x. I didn't mind doing it, but I didn't enjoy it. I always knew my partner enjoyed it, obviously, because every male whether straight or gay loves few things more than getting his d.i.c.k sucked. But this...with Valentine?

This wasn't about s.e.x, really. It was about an expression of love, about showing him how much I loved him, showing him how much I wanted to make him feel good, showing him that his pleasure was paramount to me. I loved his body, every inch of it. And I especially loved his c.o.c.k, all the glorious length of it. I'd never have thought it was possible, but I loved feeling him in my mouth, loved the sensation of stroking his hardness with my hands, tasting the pre-come on my tongue, feeling him tighten and grow harder under my touch. I loved feeling him go crazy, watching him lose control, knowing it was me, knowing I could make him feel so incredible that he couldn't hold back. I loved the way his c.o.c.k would throb and thicken as he got closer to o.r.g.a.s.m...like he was at that moment, rock-hard abs taut as a drum skin, b.a.l.l.s tight up against his body, hips flexing involuntarily, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in short wild gasps...

Yes, here it came, the release.

I loved this too, when he cut loose in my mouth. I felt him thrust deeper into my mouth and pressed my finger deeper, felt him tense, flex. He gave my hair two sharp tugs as a warning signal.

I slowed my pace.

He groaned, growled, sounding almost feral.

I slowed yet more, pulling back until he nearly popped out, and then plunged down, taking him to the back of my throat. He growled again, thrusting up as he prepared to come.

I hummed, moved my finger ever so slightly in and out, and gave him one more long slow stroke of my mouth, and then I tasted salt and heat, felt the initial spurt as I was backing away. Felt it on my tongue, splas.h.i.+ng into my mouth. I swallowed, continued my slow deliberate stroke, until I was at the edge of my gag reflex.

I wrapped my free hand around the thick root of his c.o.c.k and stroked him there too, hard and fast now, while moving my mouth up and down slowly, slowly. The contrast of the slow movement of my mouth versus the quick hard jacking motion of my hand drove him crazy, and he shot another thick stream of come into my mouth. I swallowed. He groaned, a low but loud rumble, and I kept the contrasting pace going, milked his o.r.g.a.s.m for yet another spurting gush, another smaller one, and then one last dribble.

Finally done coming, he let out a sigh.

But I wasn't done. I used my hand alone now, caressing him slowly from root to tip, coaxing more s.e.m.e.n out of him, casting a glance at him as I licked it away. Again. And only when he was finally starting to subside and go limp did I let him go, helping him tug his underwear and pants back into place.

And at that moment, as I was tucking him back into his boxer-briefs, the privacy gla.s.s whirred and lowered,.

"Hey, we were thinking of stopping for-oh Jesus! Seriously, you two?" Layla's voice s.h.i.+fted from casual query to disgust and outrage within a single breath. "You're for real blowing him right there in the back of the limo? We're right here!"

I glanced at Layla as I zipped, fastened, and buckled Roth. "That's why it's called privacy gla.s.s."

"Yeah, but-" she faked a dramatic shudder. "Seriously did not need to see that."

"Good thing you didn't open the window any sooner, then," I said, resuming my seat and smoothing my hair back.

Layla just stared at me for a long moment, and then her brows drew down. "Um. You've got some...right by your mouth-oh G.o.d. I'm not sure I can look at you anymore."

I wiped at my face and grinned at her. "Oh please. Like I've never walked in on you before. In fact, I think I did, and you didn't even slow down, if I remember right. You just kept on going."

Layla looked equal parts embarra.s.sed and angry. Roth was silent, but clearly enjoying it, and Harris? I wasn't sure about him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, hands at ten and two on the wheel.

"Yeah, well-" Layla started. But then she laughed despite herself. "That was so d.a.m.n awkward. We were in the shower and you had to use the bathroom. But he was right there so I couldn't just stop, and you were about to wet yourself."

I laughed even harder. "I pretended I didn't know what was going on, and you pretended I wasn't there. Only, there was a shower curtain between us, clear from the waist up. Thank G.o.d it wasn't gla.s.s, but I could just see the top of your head moving..."

"You wouldn't look at either of us for weeks after that."

"Yeah, well, your creeptastic whatever-of-the-month didn't have that problem. He'd look at me like 'yeah buddy, you want some, too?'"

"He did?" Layla asked.

"Um, yeah? He stared me down all the time after that. Gave me these looks, wiggled his eyebrows. s.h.i.+t, he all but pulled his junk out and offered it to me."

Harris coughed, then, and Layla glanced at him, and I saw her expression s.h.i.+ft from amus.e.m.e.nt to embarra.s.sment, and from there to walls-up defensive anger. "What?" She turned to him. "Got something to say, Harry?"

He swiveled his head ever so slightly. "No, Miss Campari."

"Oh please. 'Miss Campari' my a.s.s. You know my f.u.c.king name."

"True."

"So what?" She tilted her head, and I could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was spoiling for a fight, Layla-style. Poor Harris. Layla in p.i.s.sed-off or embarra.s.sed mode is scary. She could flay the red off a brick with nothing but a few well-turned phrases. "You don't like to hear about my s.e.xual exploits...Harry? Got a problem with it?"

"Not at all."

"Well it sure as f.u.c.k seems that way. That little cough, like excuse me? Sounded to me like a judgmental sort of cough, know what I mean?"

"Not at all. It isn't my place to judge."

"But you are, aren't you? Bet you're wondering how many d.i.c.ks I've sucked in the shower, aren't you?" She leaned close, enunciating each syllable very clearly and carefully. "A lot. Not just in the shower, either. In the car. In the bed. On the couch. Public bathrooms. Behind the bleachers. Everywhere. I love b.l.o.w.j.o.bs, Harry. They're my f.u.c.king specialty."

Harris's shoulders lifted and lowered as he took a long breath and let it out. His fingers flexed on the steering wheel. "Very clever play on words, Miss Campari."

"My name is Layla."

"I'm aware."

She traced the sh.e.l.l of Harris's ear with her finger. "Bet you want a sample of the goods, don't you? A little test run? Right here, right now?" She leaned closer. "You want some road head, Harry?"

"My name is Harris. And no. Not while I'm driving a half-million-dollar automobile." He didn't flinch, didn't bat her hand away, and didn't look at her. "Ask me later, though, and I might have a different answer."

Not the response she was expecting, I gathered. She snorted and turned away, catching a glimpse of Roth, who was barely restraining open laughter.

"Glad you think this is funny, Roth," she snapped.

"Oh, I do. Very much so." Roth gestured at Harris, chuckling. "You've managed to fl.u.s.ter Harris, and that is no mean feat, I a.s.sure you. Harris is so unflappable he could be British."

Harris shook his head. "Very funny...sir."

This only made Roth laugh even harder. "So it's sir, now, is it? You never call me sir."

I had to defuse this, somehow. "I feel like we've gotten off-topic, here. Layla, you were going to say something about stopping somewhere?"

She tossed her thick, curly black hair. "Never mind. I ain't even hungry anymore."

Uh-oh. Layla rarely reverted back to what she referred to as "old Layla" slang. She'd grown up in a pretty rough area, and her manner of speech had shown that. She'd worked hard to eradicate it, and had taught herself to speak more properly, even if she still swore like a sailor. But when she was really upset she'd speak in street-slang.

"Layla, I-"

She raised the privacy gla.s.s, cutting me off.

Roth glanced at me. "That was unexpected."

"She gets p.r.i.c.kly when she feels like she's on the defensive."

"She going to be okay?"

I shrugged. "Eventually. Layla is Layla. You can never tell with her."

"YOU KNOW I CAN HEAR YOU, RIGHT?" Layla shouted. She lowered the gla.s.s again. "I am not p.r.i.c.kly, and I am not unpredictable. Jesus."

I had to laugh at that. "Layla, come on-"

"Just-shut up, Key. You're just gonna p.i.s.s me off even more."

"Please, Kyrie," Harris cut in. "Whatever you do, don't p.i.s.s her off anymore. I have to ride with her up here."

"Oh shut your f.u.c.king mouth, Mister Unflappable."

"You first, Miss b.l.o.w.j.o.bs-for-Everyone."

"Oh...s.h.i.+t," I murmured.

"I didn't mean-" Layla started, and then shut her mouth on her words so fast her teeth clicked. "You know what? I don't owe you d.i.c.k for explanations. That's not what I meant and you know it."

"That's what it sounded like to me." Harris was speaking as calmly as ever, but there was something in his voice, a hint of ire, a note of irritation...something I'd never heard before.

"I was making a point."

"About how much you love b.l.o.w.j.o.bs. Point taken."

Layla hissed. "About how my decisions are mine to make and I won't be judged for them!"

"I'm not judging. I have not uttered a single word in judgment. I haven't said one syllable that could be construed as negative towards you in any way, Miss Campari-Layla, I mean."

"It's the way you're looking at me. Or not looking at me." She sounded petulant, and less sure of herself, somehow.

"Then you're misconstruing the way I'm looking at you. And, honestly, my focus has been on the road, not you."

"What, you can't divide your attention?"

Harris let out a breath, a very frustrated breath. "Oh for f.u.c.k's sake. You're impossible."

Layla had no reaction to this. She just crossed her arms beneath her prominent b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stared out the window at the rural New York State scenery.

I glanced at Roth as this exchange occurred. We traded looks, both of us surprised at our respective friends.

I'd never seen Layla interact with anyone this way. She dominated conversation simply by virtue of being louder and talking faster, by being in your face and unapologetic and rowdy and bawdy. She was beautiful, tall, strongly built, had curves for days, and a personality that naturally took up all the attention in any given room. Every guy she'd ever dated or slept with or whatever she wanted to call it, they'd all just gone along with her, because trying to buck her need to control and trying to steer her at all never worked. Not for anyone. She was the epitome of the no-f.u.c.ks-given mentality, not because she genuinely didn't care about how she came across, but because she refused to be cowed or dominated or controlled by anyone.

But Harris, with his quiet, calm, una.s.suming mannerisms, had somehow taken her down a few pegs without even trying. He'd gotten under her skin. No one-nothing-ever got under Layla Campari's skin. Her skin was so thick it was like armor.

This interaction with Harris had me thinking. Combine this with the overly quick denial that anything could ever happen between her and Harris...

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

4.

THE SYSTEM.

We were going to the Turks and Caicos islands.

Population roughly 33,000 people. Geographically, it was an archipelago of forty islands, governed by the UK as a "British Overseas Territory". Their currency was the US dollar.

It was a paradise with turquoise water, white sand beaches, tiki-hut bars on endless beaches.

I couldn't wait to get there.