One of his large hands wraps around the back of my neck. Not commanding or controlling. He doesn't push or pull me, but that added connection is something I didn't know I needed. He's not using me. It's the touch of a lover - a grounding. He could have not touched me at all, or grabbed the back of my head and shoved me down on him, but he didn't. He's simply touching me for the sake of touching me, and it causes a riot of goosebumps to break out over my entire body. Somehow, it's almost as intimate as having a finger inside of me.
I work my mouth and hand in tandem, giving him the sloppiest blow job I can. Above me, his breathing goes ragged, and I change our angle so that I can look up at him. He's watching me with intensity, nostrils flaring as his breathing speeds up.
I flick my tongue on the underside of his cock, remembering how sensitive it is for me, and he grunts, his abs contracting and his hips flexing instinctively. So, I do it again, and again, watching as the gorgeous, stoic man in front of me loses his cool. Forme.
"I'm going to cum," he grunts out, squeezing the back of my neck in warning. But I don't change a thing. Saliva's spilling from my mouth onto my hand, creating the best kind of warm, wet friction that I think he likes.
"Fuck," he shouts, throwing his head back as his hips flex and his cock swells on my tongue. "Gareth," he whispers as the first burst of cum hits my tongue. I've never tasted cum before, and I find I don't mind it. It's salty and musky, but not at all unpleasant. I slow my rhythm, slowly milking him of everything he has until he collapses beneath me. I swallow his cum and release his cock, leaning back on my knees.
He releases my neck but lets that hand fall to my thigh, grounding us again.
He drags a hand down his face, groaning. "Just give me a second," he says as an apology.
Excitement, eagerness, and the need for validation ride me hard, and I can't help but blurt out, "Did I do good?" Christ, I sound like an eager puppy.
His thick lips tip up on one side. "Yeah, Brockman. You did good."
My return smile widens. When he called me by my last name before, it felt like a way to put distance between us - to keep things professional. Just now, though, it sounded a lot more like when my football friends and I would call each other by our last names. It sounded like a nickname only for us.
Chapter eight
Trey
Iflick on my blender the next morning, trying to drown out my tumultuous thoughts. I can't help replaying last night's events over and over in my head on a loop. I barely slept last night. But I can't figure out why a single night with Gareth has thrown off my normally calm and controlled mind. I work hard to manage my mind, my emotions, and my body. My body and my mind are how I put food on the table. My ability to emotionally regulate myself helps me regulate my clients.
Some of my clients just want a connection, the intimacy that comes from being completely open and honest with another human being. Whether that's with their stories or their bodies. The human connection that we all crave. A friend with a shoulder to lean on, to feel vulnerable with, a safe person to share one's deepest secrets.
Some of my clients just want to get in, get off, and leave again. But I've been blessed enough to be able to be picky with my client list and have politely fired those clients who don't value human connection and intimacy.
And then there's Gareth.
Fuck! Why has he thrown me off so much? He's physically attractive, but then so are a lot of my clients. My clients are all shapes, sizes, and colors, and I can find something attractive about all body types and facial features. Honestly, I'm more attracted to someone's personality than their body.
Maybe that's why images of Gareth have been filtering through my brain on repeat. The shy look on his face when he came out of the shower. The way he trapped his lower lip in his teeth. The way he looked when he came. The way he went down on me. How eager he was for my praise. Flashes of last night have been ruminating in my brain all night and into the morning. I need to go for a long run to be able to clear these thoughts.
I have a photoshoot this evening and another client three days from now. I need to find my center again before then. I can't have images or memories of Gareth interrupting a session. Every client deserves me to be one hundred percent present and in tune with their needs and desires.
I flick my blender off with a little more force than necessary. I chug my protein smoothie and tie my shoes on for a run. I shouldn't run after eating so much, but I'll take a stomach ache over the fear that's creeping in that maybe Gareth isn't like my other clients. That our night together was different. It wasn't. He needed a safe space and a safe person to explore his sexuality, and I was able to give him that.
Pretty damn well, if you ask me.
Pride made my chest swell last night, that he greenlit every step of the way. That I made him feel comfortable enough, safe enough, to push his boundaries. Before I left, he was already talking about another session. I'm expecting a new deposit any day now.
A flash of how eagerly he wrapped his lips around my cock nearly steals my breath away as I open my front door.
I close my door behind me, jogging down my front stairs and hitting the pavement. I regulate my breathing, my foot falls, my arms swinging. In complete control. I should be able to put in five miles if I keep this pace.
As I run, I get a grip on my mind. Gareth's not different. He's just another client. It was just his trust and vulnerability that I found so attractive. He should have no reason to trust me. I decided to trust him at the dinner we shared. Everyone deserves a chance to remake themselves and not be burdened by past mistakes. But he doesn't know that. He shouldn't have trusted me the way he did. Bottoming is the most vulnerable position a man can take. Trusting your partner not to rush you, not to hurt you, to put your needs first. It couldn't possibly be more vulnerable. And I could see how nervous he was. He was terrified, but he trusted me not to hurt him anyway.
I wonder why.
Why would he trust me with this?
It's not just sex. It's not just his body. It's his identity as a human being. As a gay man. Why would he trust me to take care of him?
I shake my head. It doesn't matter why. It's the fact that he did, I'm sure, that had me tossing and turning all night. He should have expected me to take my revenge - to get him back or embarrass him for what he did to me in high school. I certainly wouldn't have had the balls to bottom someone I bullied, even if it was a decade ago. I wouldn't have the balls to even ask them to.
He may have been nervous, but he's a braver man than I am. Being able to make a mistake, apologize for it, ask for forgiveness, and then hand your body over to that person takes real guts. I'm impressed.