Master Class by Rachel Haimowitz

Author:Rachel Haimowitz [Haimowitz, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Devon flopped back on his bed and scrubbed his hands across his face. He was almost glad Nicky had refused to speak—he was worn bordering on exhausted, tense and vibrating and unbearably horny. Nicky was . . . a challenge. He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

He wondered what Nicky was doing right now, if he was still standing stunned and fuming in the middle of Devon’s living room, hands cufflinked behind his back. Probably, at least for the moment.

God, just the thought of it made his balls ache.

Devon unzipped his jeans and freed his erection, giving in to his own need for the first time in what felt like hours, like days, like a marathon of focused denial. He closed his eyes and pictured Nicky’s fingers dancing over those French cuffs; the perfect, astonished parting of Nicky’s lips when Devon had struck him; the grim set of that sculpted jaw clenched against pain and unpleasant truths.

Then that jaw opened wide as he fucked Nicky’s throat, those lips stretched wet and pliant around him, those fingers unbound just long enough to fondle his balls or maybe, if he were a very lucky slave, to penetrate him as he sucked him off. Devon’s fist around his erection became Nicky’s—loving, worshipful, masterfully skilled—and he came in seconds, biting his lips lest he make a sound Nicky might hear.

When his heart and his breathing had settled, he lay for a moment with his eyes closed, listening carefully for sounds from down the hall. Nothing so far, though he hadn’t expected Nicky to misbehave quite so quickly. But he knew the boy would eventually; it hadn’t taken Devon ten minutes to figure out that being alone was the worst kind of torture for Nicky. He purposefully hadn’t even left Nicky a distraction—hadn’t bound him tight enough to struggle against, hadn’t blindfolded or gagged him, hadn’t shoved a plug up his ass, nothing.

Devon stood and stripped, still thinking of Nicky as he stepped into the shower. Poor thing was probably bored silly, confused, angry, maybe a little hurt. Wondering how he’d lost control and if he really wanted this, after all. Touching Devon’s stuff, maybe? Looking at his CD collection? Watching TV? Being naughty, Devon was certain, in the hope he’d misunderstood Devon’s words, that Devon would come back out there and beat him until he came and then kick him out until next time.

Or would he just say “fuck it” and leave?

Hmm. Better not keep him waiting too long. Thirty minutes was an agony of forever when you were just standing there counting the seconds—and perhaps the one agony Nicky couldn’t endure without help.

Devon soaped up and rinsed off, elected not to shave (the image of rubbing his stubbled cheek along Nicky’s bare stomach nearly had him jacking off again), put on clean jeans and a long-sleeved polo (Nicky hadn’t yet earned the right to see any skin), and snuck back into the living room just twenty-three minutes after he’d left.

Sure enough, Nicky was putting down a picture on the mantel and rushing back to his spot in the middle of the room.

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