The Roommate Situation (24 page)

I drag his bed across the room. “I don’t know. Once I have you strapped down, I might not want to let you up again.” From under the mattress, I fish out the belts he made to keep the beds from sliding apart and start strapping the legs together.

Derek drops a pile of restraints and a handful of locks on one of the beds and reaches for his belt buckle.

“Uh-uh,” I say, moving the gear so I can pull the blankets out of the way. Washing cum stains off the comforters costs more than washing them out of the sheets. File that under Things You Learn the Hard Way. “You can take off your shirt, though.”

“All right, then.”

I catch my lip under my teeth at the sight and smile.

“You look like a cat watching dinner being put in the bowl,” he says.

“We’ll see who winds up purring.”

“Yeah? That’ll be a first too. I’ve never purred in my life.” He grabs one of the cuffs and wraps it around his wrist.

“I think you were pretty close the other night,” I say, picking up one of the straps.

“That
was
feeling pretty good.” He slides a lock through the buckle and snaps it shut. It rattles softly as he bends to grab the other cuff.

The click of the lock has the same effect on me when it’s on Derek’s wrist as it does on mine. I adjust myself so my jeans aren’t choking the shit out of me.

The best thing about having an ongoing thing with him is I don’t have to turn away, worried he might see what he’s doing to me.

Okay, maybe not the
best
thing.

“Where are the keys?” I ask.

“In my pocket.”

I lean against his hip and run my hand over his pocket. The keys are little bumps in the denim. Not too far to the right is a much larger bump. I cup it. “I’ll have to dig for them after I’ve got you locked up. Or maybe I’ll just leave them there. It’s not like you’ll be able to reach them.”

“You’re making me hard.”

No kidding. I rub the denim with my thumb. “You’re making me impatient.” I kiss his neck, softly. Slowly. “Don’t you have that thing on yet?” I ask.

The second lock clicks.

He lifts his arms over my shoulders and pushes his fingers into the back of my hair. The weight of him leans against mine. I nip and kiss up the side of his neck, going from smooth skin to the scratch of stubble. When my nose brushes his ear, I lift my chin and say, “Get on the bed.”

“Let go of my dick, and I will.”

I give one more squeeze before getting out of his way.

He stretches out on his back, raises his arms over his head, and grabs hold of the headboard. I shake a strap out, enjoying the view. Thinking how much more enjoyable it’s going to be in a minute, when he can’t use his hands to stop me from doing anything I want.

Not that he’s ever actually stopped me from doing anything.

He watches me run the strap around the bedpost, shifting his hips slightly as I lock the strap to the cuff. I wonder if he’s as turned on as I get by it, or if he’s so used to working with the restraints that it’s no big thing to be wearing them.

I crawl over him to do his other wrist, and he makes a lewd comment, smirking at me.

“You wait, buster,” I say. “You’ll be paying for that.”

After snapping the final lock shut, I caress the inside of his arm, making him squirm and say, “Hey now.”

Smiling, I touch my lips to the spot I just got the squirm out of, moving my fingers to his chest, then trailing down to his stomach, making his muscles there twitch and jerk. Making him say, “Hey,” again.

The D-rings rattle dully as he pulls on them—and that’s what I’m really most interested in, Derek’s wrists locked to the corners of the bed, the wide black leather cuffs holding them. I close my hand around one, just holding it first, then giving it a pull to confirm he’s not going anywhere.

His fingers curl into a loose fist. I push them open with my thumb, exposing his palm, and I kiss that too, inhaling the smell of his last cigarette, his warm skin.

There’s too much light in the room for this. I feel like I’m onstage. I bounce off the bed to flip the switch by the door, plunging us into near darkness. That’s a little much. On the other side of the room, I switch on a desk lamp, then open my astronomy book and stand it on end so it blocks some of the light.

He’s watching me, craning his neck. His stomach rises and falls with his breaths. A dusting of dark hairs thickens as it reaches toward the waist of his jeans. He’s got a knee cocked, his scuffed boot planted on the sheets. My mother’d have a fit. I think his boots are hot as hell. I grip the one at the end of his outstretched leg, rub my thumb over the leather.

“You can take that off if you want,” he says.

“No, that’s all right.” I slide my hand up his shin, curve my fingers around his thigh. I put my knee on the bed and kiss the line of hair on his stomach, just above his waistband—lingering, nipping. Watching him through my lashes, I work my way upward with both mouth and hand. The tilt of his chin, his exposed neck, the bare patch of skin the dark stubble along the underside of his jaw. I know it hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it’ll never get old, looking at him.

He lifts his head, chin to his chest, and looks at me, his lips parted. I move my hand slowly alongside the ridge in his jeans. Knowing what he wants. Knowing he’ll like it better if he doesn’t get it.

I swing my leg over and straddle him, sliding my hands up his arms, leaning down, teasing him with my lips just over his—close enough to feel his breath but not close enough for him to reach. Payback. I grin. Then, barely pursing my lips, I blow a light stream of air down his uplifted chin, curving underneath, down his neck, ending in the hollow there, which I grace with another kiss.

My cock aches, but it’s the kind of ache I can live with for a while. The kind of ache I can indulge in. Sliding back up the side of his neck, to his ear, I poise my lips to form words—and the breath stalls in my throat. I nip him instead, tugging on his earlobe, my ear right next to his deepening breaths.

I turn my chin, our mouths close again, but I’m not letting them touch. A soft moan escapes him as I pull away again.

He sinks his head into the pillow, eyes closed. Adam’s apple moving with his swallow.

This is a chance I don’t get much of, to sit here and study him while he’s horny. I touch my finger to his lips but draw it downward when he opens his mouth and tries to tongue it. I take his chin in my hand, the stubble rough under my fingertips, his jaw hard underneath that. He cracks his eyes open, just enough for me to see a dark shine behind his lashes. “If you don’t stop teasing me and put your tongue down my throat soon, I’m gonna rip these cuffs off the bedposts, hold you down, and do it myself.”

I wouldn’t mind that. Smiling, I move my lips closer but not close
enough
. I murmur, “That, I’d like to see.”

“It would be better if you just prevented me from making an ass of myself. Come on.” He lifts his head again, and I draw back. “Come on,” he whispers.

“Is that— Are you begging?”

He drops his head. “Not me.” He swallows, lifting his chin. Shifting his hips. “But if you don’t stop teasing me, don’t be surprised if you wake up with a Sharpie mustache one of these mornings.”

“I think I liked the begging better than the threats.” I nip that sensitive spot on his upper arm, and his body jerks under me.

He pulls against the restraints. “Don’t make me start yelling for help.”

It’s a Saturday night: the halls are filled with music, and people yelling over the music. I swing off him and reach under the beds for my alarm clock, brushing it with my fingertips, managing to turn it slightly until I can get a grip. I get my phone, prop it in the dock, dial up some Black Angels, and crank the volume.

The mattress shifts under my weight as I climb onto the bed. I lean down to his ear and say, “Go right ahead,” while the menacing riff from the first song on the album starts up beneath us. I rake his chest with my fingernails, making his head tip back, and then I go after his neck, using every part of my mouth to make him squirm and gasp and try to throw me off. I rub my stubble over the sensitive skin there, and he arches his neck, gripping the bedposts, whispering, “Damn it.” When I put my mouth back on the muscle in his neck, I’m grinning. This is
one
way to make sure I last longer than him. I bite him. Pressing my tongue against his muscle, I suck until he’s moaning again.

Slowly I scrape my way up to his jaw, where our stubble rasps together.

And then I can’t hold out any longer. I need his lips under mine, the urgency of his tongue, the heat inside his mouth. I push my hands into his hair and claim him with my mouth, my breath, and I don’t let up until I almost can’t breathe myself.

Gasping, I draw my forehead down his chin to place another soft, openmouthed kiss in the hollow of his throat.

“I can’t decide if this was a great idea or a terrible one,” he says, and he jerks at the restraints again.

I lay my cheek on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of him beneath me. “What do these do?” I ask, passing a thumb across the taut nub of his nipple.

I think Derek whispers, “Oh shit,” but his head’s tilted back, and the music below us is loud. I kiss his nipple lightly, pacing myself—I have a whole album to get through. Derek’s not gonna get release until the last track is climaxing.

I press my tongue against the nub, enjoying the feel of that. I catch it gently between my teeth, then roll my tongue over it. His stomach hitches beneath my chest. His hips stir. I can hear the heel of his boot sliding over the sheet.

Propping my elbow on his chest, I rest my chin in my hand. “I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he says, dropping his head again. Swallowing again. Shifting his hips again. As I slide my hand right past the cock trapped in his jeans, he crooks his knee, trying to push into my hand. I reach his thigh and start heading back up until my nails drag along his stomach. When I start down again, his hips push up. I let my wrist just brush the ridge in his jeans, and then I’m coming up, my hand on bare, warm skin, fingers sliding up that thin line of hair toward his sternum. His hands clutch into fists. I’m leaning my weight against his cock and smiling.

As the album starts in on the next track, I tug his nipple, squeezing it between my thumb and finger.

His teeth catch his lower lip. His fists tighten. He breathes out a
fssshhhh
of air between his teeth, and when I squeeze a little harder, his mouth opens, chin lifts.

I want to taste that nipple again. I put my mouth around it, breathing slowly, savoring it. His hips move. His heel slides into the blankets piled at the foot of the bed. When I flick my tongue over his nipple, then bite down, his hips lift under me. I can feel his moan through his breastbone. I push my tongue hard against him—his nipple’s a warm pellet, like a rubber BB. His heart thuds against my lips.

I wonder if you can give a nipple a hickey. My hypothesis is yes, but since this is college—a place for experimenting—I decide to go ahead and find out. His chest rises as he draws in air. It stops fully expanded. I suck harder, and a groan comes out of him. His thigh leans on mine. He tries to dry hump from below. I reach down, and maybe he thinks I’m going to rub his cock through his jeans, but I catch hold of his thigh and pin it with the heel of my hand.

Smiling, I lick softly, kiss lightly, then pull back to look at my work, mottled with red and shiny with spit.

He lifts his head to look down too, his teeth pressed together.

“Did it hurt?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t call it
hurt
.”

I push his head down, and then I stretch out on top of him. I’ve lost track of which song we’re on. I rest my mouth on his shoulder while I listen.

Right.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, lifting my head.

“Aside from discovering you’re evil?”

I can’t hold off the smile. “I might do the other one too. You know, so they match.”

“Fucker.”

“Wouldn’t want people making fun of you in the showers because you have just one bruised-looking nipple.”

“Har har.”

I cover his mouth with mine, cutting off further comment. The kissing almost immediately rises to a new level of urgency, his hips grinding hard up against mine. Begging with his crotch. I stretch my arms and interlock my fingers with his—and he grabs on hard, forcing me to have to fight my hands free.

His mouth tries not to let me go too, grabbing my lip with his teeth. I pull away.

Defeated, he drops his head, his lips blushed and swollen. His chin is red from my beard.

The album’s more than half over. It’s going way too fast.

I push down the length of him until my stomach is on his cock, his unmolested nipple right in front of my chin. As I stick out my tongue, he squirms uselessly, making the bed frames shake. He says, “Shit,” just as my tongue makes contact.

Without pulling back, I look up. “Do you want me to stop? I can stop.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t?”

“Please don’t,” he says.

“Don’t stop?”

“Please don’t fucking stop.”

The intake of air when I close my teeth around him is audible over the music. The headboard rattles. His hips try to move, but I’ve got too much weight resting on him. Holding him captive, I can take as long as I want on this nipple, scratching it with my cheek, sucking it with my mouth. Blowing cool air across it as he squirms. Sucking a little, then letting go, smiling against his skin.

I finish the hickey long after the album’s moved on to the next song. Matching nipples—it’s only right. As I let him slip slowly from my teeth, he says, “Fuck.” His stomach hitches. His thigh rubs mine. He turns his head and wipes his forehead on the inside of his elbow.

He says, “Fuck,” again, his face still pressed into the crook of his arm.

My cock throbs—it wants out, but it wants this to go on all night too. I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself yet. I don’t even know what I’m going to do with Derek once I finally free his cock from those Levi’s. Running that video through my head, I work my mouth down his stomach, making it jerk and twitch. There’s something about the soft give of his belly, the tickle of those warm, coarse hairs. The taste of skin. I open my mouth wide to cover as much area as I can at one time, as if I can nourish myself on his stomach alone, that faint, faded taste of sweat and soap and warm, warm skin.