Crossed Keys

Chapter Nine - Dash

Strike was my first.

Not my first time—but my first passion.

My first blow-job—giving and receiving.

It was the first time I had a man drip hot and tangy on my tongue.

The first time I swallowed and licked at the head of his dick for more.

He was my first man moaning—the first time fire shimmered down my spine and sending electricity back up the same path, making me moan.

Strike was my first everything that mattered and as that realization caused tears to burn my eyes, he swirled his tongue around the head of my cock. The move rendered me senseless as I whimpered for him and sunk my nails into his shoulders.

He hissed softly and I thought for sure I'd hurt him.

Instead, he kissed the insides of my thighs, dragged his tongue up my balls and shaft before taking me down his throat again.

"Strike." I gave in.

He released me, pulling me back from the climactic edge he'd been pushing me toward. Sighing, I passed my palms down his muscular arm and he crawled up my body. Strike kissed and licked his way upward until our mouths were fused together.

Our cocks did battle as we both moved our hips from side to side leaving me trembling in his arms. He added to the fire when he dropped his mouth to my throat, and I knew he'd marked me.

That thought made me want him even more.

"Please." I begged.

Strike stared down into my eyes before climbing off the bed. When he returned, he'd found the condoms and lube I'd purchased, and my cheeks grew hot with my embarrassment but not enough to make me stop.

Tolling to my stomach, I pushed to my knees and arched my back so he could have access to me. For a moment he merely stared at me.

Strike watched me until every part of me was highly aroused, and I couldn't stop the way I blushed. Then he passed a large, work roughened palm over my ass, one way—then the next.

Finally, something cool landed between my crack, and I moaned. He was making me ready for him and I couldn't begin to explain how excited that thought made me. Working one lube-covered in, then two, I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to keep the noise down.

But Strike didn't want that.

He used his free hand to grab my hair and tugged my neck back as he slid into me.

"Strike—you're so—"

He pulled out and drove into me. This time, harder and faster.

I screamed, but he didn't release my hair.

Holding one of my shoulders with his free hand, he used that as leverage to surge into me like a storm wave, over and over.

Sweat dotted my forehead, trickled down my spine and dripped to the bed—I didn't care.

He pushed me facedown onto the bed, climbed over me and drove in deep again.

"Fuck!" I shouted. "More."

That position morphed into another and another.

My favourite was me on my back, locking eyes with him, watching the way his jawline clenched. I loved the way his muscles tightened with his pump of his hips and the soft growl that now echoed through the room.

I loved watching him forcing me to fall apart.

"I want you to say my name." Strike demanded through gritted teeth.