The Muse's Undoing

He kicks my knees wide to step between and grabs two fistfuls of my hair. He tips my head back and forces me to look at him.

For a long time, all he does is stare. I want to rise to the occasion. Meet his eyes and not blink. It’s nearly impossible. He’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. I want to tell him this. I want to tell him I’ve been floating in a sea of denial, not of what I knew but of what I wanted—what I was denying myself because I thought he’d ruled me out years ago for too many reasons to count. I thought I was lucky to get to watch TV with my head on his lap. To have the privilege of him warming my bed and letting me grab his hand when I needed it. To wrap myself around his body when I needed more but was afraid it was too much. My lips part to whisper some small summary of this, but his mouth is on mine before I can get a single syllable out.

Fuck.

This again. My dick thumps up against my abs as his tongue wraps around mine and pulls it into his mouth. I no longer believe that two objects can’t occupy the same space at the same time. He’s kissing me so deeply, it’s like we’re merging into one.

I brace myself by hanging on to his waistband, stretching my back and neck to bind us together. My cock jerks again, but I can’t blame myself if I come from his kiss. It’s like being fucked in the face except it actually feels good.

His pace is perfect. Powerful and slow, intense and earth-shaking. My lips are going to be bruised, and I couldn’t care less. He groans, long and low, as he drops to his knees, bringing my mouth along for the journey. My hands slide up his sides, drift up his neck, and grip the back of his head.

He slips a hand beneath my chin and pulls away, breathing heavy and staring at me with red, shining lips and a determined gaze. “You gonna give me what I want?”

I nod, in a trance.

“Don’t fight me.”

I take my hands off him, place them flat on the mattress and lean back.

He stares at the swollen, seeping tip of my cock. “You won’t stop me?”

Why the fuck would I do that?

I grip myself by the base and angle myself at his mouth.

“Thank you,” he whispers like grace before bending forward to engulf my cock.

“Oh, God…”

He’s got me in his throat in two seconds, and his lips are working up and down my shaft while he moans like he’s the one a few heartbeats away from exploding.

His mouth is a million degrees and so wet. His tongue is velvety soft, fitting itself to me and guiding me deeper and deeper until he digs his nose into my pubic bone and swallows my crown, compressing me with his fucking esophagus.

My hands shake and tear at the sheets. I shout as the nearly instant orgasm tenses my thighs, lights me up, and shoots into him.

He slides back, popping off me with a gasp but aiming my dick to catch the next few spurts on his tongue. So goddamn hot. The next gush doesn’t go airborne, and I swear that was the one he was waiting for, because it gives him a perfect excuse to suckle maddeningly at my tip, nursing me for every last drop.

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…

“No no no…” I fight to catch my breath, but my hips are bucking, fighting back against this attack when my dick can’t take any more.

He slaps a hand on my pec and digs his nails in, beginning his next blow job more playfully. It’s an all-out assault on frayed nerve-endings, and I’m immediately on the verge of tears, whimpering and begging him to give me a minute—to please slow down, “Fuck, Matty, I can’t take it.”

He gives my nipple a light pinch, distracting me, but he doesn’t stop. His lips are a firm ring dragging up and down half my cock and flicking his tongue over my slit with every upstroke.

“Jesus Christ…” I groan, surrendering to the aftershocks and what feels like electric zaps up my shaft. I twitch and gasp and whine until he slowly but surely manages to draw deep groans from me again. I’m still edged with burning need—another orgasm wanting to burst through. It’s beyond intense, and it’s turning me into an animal. My hips fuck into him rhythmically, seeking every bit of friction he has to offer. He moans his pleasure with my response and takes me deeper, a reward for letting him take control.

Then, just as I’m literally peering over the edge of another orgasm, he pulls off and wraps a fist around my base, choking off what felt imminent. “Why so quiet, princess?”

“Matthew, please.” I need more—fuck—I’m sweating for it. Dying for it.

He gives me half a salacious grin. “Please what?”

“It feels so good. I’m gonna come.”

“But you already came.”

“I need to come again.”