Pumpkin Crush: An MM Romance, page 22
“You're taking credit for our relationship now too?”
“I reconnected with you at the festival. Encouraged the rivalry between our sons. Created opportunities for them to be together. This entire autumn of romance is my doing.” I paused. “Well, mine and pumpkin spice. Mostly mine.”
“Your ego is going to suffocate us both.”
“You love my ego.”
“I love you despite your ego.”
“I love you too,” I said quietly. “Even though you wear flannel to everything and think dollar store vampire teeth constitute a costume.”
“The teeth were ironic.”
“The teeth were tragic.”
He kissed me again, swallowing my laugh, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into this new chapter of my life that I hadn't seen coming and wouldn't trade for anything.
The kiss started gentle, all laughter and soft smiles, but desire crept in like a slow-burning fuse. My fingers tangled in the silver at Richard’s nape, tugging him closer, refusing to let the moment cool. His hands gripped my waist, broad and sure, thumbs stroking circles through my shirt as our mouths danced from playful to hungry.
One low sound in his throat—that desperate, aching note only I ever got to hear—made me lose my patience. I pressed him back against the cushions, body flush to his, knees bracketing his hips. The velvet of my cape slipped sideways, pooling between us, but I didn’t care about drama anymore, not when I could taste the want on his lips.
“God, you're insatiable,” Richard muttered, breath hitching when my hips ground against his. I smirked into the kiss, lips brushing his jaw, beard prickling my skin.
“Only for you,” I murmured, dragging my teeth along the angle of his chin. My hands explored without shame—palming the solid heat of his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath soft flannel, greedy for every tremor. I pressed my thigh harder between his legs and was rewarded with the subtle, unmistakable roll of his hips.
“Been waiting for this?” I teased, letting my mouth roam. “All evening, all festival, pretending you weren’t thinking about this?”
He caught my mouth in a bruising kiss, hands fisting in the fabric at my lower back. “Every damn night. Couldn’t get you out of my head if I tried.”
“Don’t try,” I whispered, nipping at his bottom lip, tongue flicking out, catching the taste of wine and the faintest echo of spice. I let my teeth drag over his pulse point, smiling at the way his breath stuttered.
His hands wandered lower, strong and demanding, squeezing my hips, pulling me down until there was nothing but friction and heat and the slide of our bodies. The air between us thickened—wine and sweat and the unmistakable scent of hunger. My fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, nails scraping lightly over skin, and I watched the flush climb his throat, watched his eyes grow darker.
“I’ve got you,” I promised, voice gone rough and raw. My lips returned to his, kisses growing wetter, sloppier, more desperate with each pass. My tongue teased his, coaxing him open, swallowing every groan, every plea.
He arched up into me, chasing the pressure, hands finding the shape of my ass, gripping me through fabric. I let him have it for a moment, let him control the angle, let him feel the power he had—then I took it back, pinning his wrists above his head, leaning in so close I could feel the tremor in his breath.
“Always the control freak,” Richard breathed, but his eyes shone with amusement and want, that perfect silver-fox arrogance barely masking the need underneath.
“Someone’s got to keep you in line,” I replied, letting my nose brush the shell of his ear, teeth scraping down the tendon of his neck. I licked the hollow at his throat, feeling his pulse flutter beneath my tongue.
His chest heaved under me. I kissed my way down, licking a stripe over his Adam’s apple, loving the way his breath shuddered, his legs spreading wider, hips canting up as if begging for more.
“Edward—” his voice broke, raw and wanting, hands tugging at my shirt, desperate for skin.
I let him squirm, let him work himself up, mouth never stopping—pressing kisses to his jaw, biting at the corner of his mouth, dragging my tongue over his beard, teasing and tormenting, savoring every response.
“God, you’re such a tease,” he growled, but his voice was thick, desperate.
“Why rush?” I whispered, lips brushing his cheek. “We have all night. I want you wrung out before I ever get you naked.”
My hand slid lower, cupping him through his jeans, the heat of him unmistakable, and he bucked up, a low moan slipping out.
“Thought you liked velvet capes and slow seduction,” he rasped, trying for humor but missing, lost in the haze of arousal.
“I like making you lose your mind,” I purred, hand squeezing, rolling my hips down again so he could feel exactly what he did to me. “I like you like this—wild, needy, begging for it.”
The look on Richard’s face—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide—sent a bolt of heat through me. Wanting him wrecked, desperate, was more addictive than any vintage red I’d ever poured. My fingers slid down the line of his chest, then I pulled back, forcing myself to savor, not devour.
“Come on, then,” I murmured, rising to my feet, velvet cape sliding off my shoulders in a heavy, deliberate fall. My hand extended in invitation, palm up. “Time for the main event, Dracula.”
A crooked grin cut across his face, fangs flashing—cheap plastic, but the effect somehow devastating all the same. He took my hand, grip warm and steady, letting me haul him upright. I didn’t let go, leading him down the hallway, lights low, the soft pad of our socked feet on hardwood, the distant pop of festival fireworks barely reaching us.
My bedroom waited, shadowed and soft, the bed wide enough to lose yourself in. Richard hesitated at the door, but I didn’t. I pressed him inside, hands at his waist, then shoved him gently, playfully, sending him tumbling back onto the mattress with a laugh and a muffled curse.
“Bossy tonight,” he growled, but he was already pulling me down after him.
“Someone has to be,” I answered, climbing over him, bodies aligning, heat flaring everywhere we touched.
No frantic tearing of clothes. No rush. Just slow, hungry, greedy undressing, like we had all the time in the world. My fingers found the buttons of his flannel, popping them one by one, knuckles brushing over the coarse hair at his chest, letting my touch linger at every patch of bare skin. I watched his chest rise and fall, watched the anticipation simmer in his eyes.
He sat up, hands reaching for me in turn, undoing the buttons of my shirt, not bothering with finesse. Every brush of his knuckles felt like a spark, every moment a study in how much patience could hurt.
“Careful,” I warned, voice gone low, teasing. “It’s Italian.”
“Should’ve worn flannel. More forgiving,” he shot back, but his touch gentled, peeling my shirt away, baring my shoulders, my arms, the years and lines I’d earned.
I shivered, not from cold, but from the way his gaze dragged over me, reverent, hungry. My shirt slid from my shoulders, forgotten on the floor. His flannel followed, landing in a heap at the edge of the bed. The undershirts were next, pulled off with less ceremony, leaving us both bare from the waist up.
“Still smug?” he asked, voice thick, eyes on my chest, my arms, the line of my collarbone.
“Always,” I breathed, leaning down to brush a kiss over his shoulder, then another at the hollow of his throat. “But not half as smug as I’ll be when you’re begging for it.”
His laughter was ragged, hungry, his hands finding my waist, thumbs tracing the sharp jut of my hips. “Big talk for a man who wears capes.”
My hands slid to his jeans, fingers finding the button, working it open with deliberate slowness. “You love the cape,” I murmured, voice all silk and sin. “Admit it.”
He arched up, groaning when my palm pressed over the thick heat at his crotch. “Maybe I love what’s under the cape more.”
“You’re about to,” I promised, smile wicked as I eased his zipper down, knuckles grazing the straining length beneath the denim. I dragged the jeans down his hips, inch by inch, letting the anticipation build, letting him feel the hunger in every touch. His thighs—solid, dusted with silver hair—tensed beneath my palms, legs opening for me without hesitation.
He returned the favor, fingers working at my belt, then my fly, hands greedy, sure. The sound of the zipper splitting open felt obscene in the quiet, a punctuation to the stuttered breaths, the shared laughter gone hungry.
“Lift,” I instructed, and he obeyed, hips rising so I could peel his jeans off, leaving only dark boxer briefs stretched tight over his cock. He rolled me onto my back in turn, straddling my hips, hands finding the waist of my slacks, dragging them down, baring me, leaving me in nothing but silk boxers and the last shreds of composure.
My gaze dragged up the length of him. The light caught the silver at his chest, the lines at his waist, the evidence of years lived and loved and lost. I wanted all of it.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I whispered, letting my hand slide up his thigh, over the curve of his ass, finding the thick bulge straining his briefs. My thumb dragged over the outline, teasing, tracing, coaxing a growl from deep in his chest.
He leaned down, mouth finding my neck, teeth nipping, tongue soothing the sting. My hips arched, rolling up into him, our cocks grinding together through thin cotton, desperate for more friction, more heat.
“Take these off,” I commanded, hands curling in the waistband of his briefs, but he just grinned, shaking his head.
“Not yet,” he teased, dragging his own hand up my body, pausing to play with my nipple, pinching, rolling, making me gasp.
“You’re impossible,” I breathed, but I was smiling, already lost.
“So make me possible,” he answered, voice low and hot against my ear. His hands pushed my own briefs down, baring my hips, my thighs, but leaving me covered where it mattered most.
We rolled again, a tangle of limbs, laughter, desperate kisses. I pressed him down into the bed, pinning his wrists above his head, mouth finding every patch of bare skin I could reach—neck, collarbone, chest, nipples, the dip of his stomach, the trail of hair disappearing beneath his underwear.
“Gonna make you feel so good tonight,” I promised, teeth scraping at his hipbone. “Gonna worship every inch.”
His voice was a wrecked thing. “You already do.”
The sheets rustled beneath us, every movement drawing a new sound from Richard—gasps, growls, the kind of laughter that only came when you were truly seen, truly wanted. I pinned him down, wrists caged by one hand, bodies pressed so close there wasn’t room for air between us. The light spilled over him, carving out every muscle, every scar and line, and I let my gaze drink in the whole feast of him.
“Let me have you,” I whispered, dragging my mouth over the thick rope of his bicep, tracing the vein with my tongue. “All of you. Every part.” My fingers squeezed, feeling the power there, the evidence of years swinging hammers, hauling lumber, building a life with his bare hands.
He tried to hide a shiver, but failed—his body answered me before his mouth could.
My lips traveled lower, tongue gliding over his forearm, following the whorls of hair down to his elbow, then up again to his shoulder, nipping lightly at the place where muscle met bone. I let myself linger there, savoring the way his breath caught, the way his thighs flexed beneath me, already pushing up for friction.
“Never met anyone so strong,” I murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “Drives me fucking wild.” My hands mapped his chest, slow circles, palms pressing into the meat of him, fingertips teasing over every dip and plane. Each pass made his breath come faster, his cock swelling, straining hard and thick against the dark cotton.
The real prize waited under his arm—a patch of soft, wild hair, scent of him strong and intoxicating. I buried my face there, inhaling deeply, letting the heat and sweat and masculine musk go to my head. My tongue darted out, licking a slow, filthy line along the edge, tasting salt and clean skin and something purely Richard.
A strangled moan split the silence. His arms flexed, biceps jumping under my hands, as I licked deeper, nosing into the dark, licking, sucking, letting the spit gather. My nose pressed in, dragging up every drop of sweat, tongue flicking and lapping until he was panting, a wreck beneath me.
“God, Ed—” His voice broke off, hips jerking up, leaking against the fabric.
“Say it,” I demanded, licking again, mouth greedy. “Tell me how much you want it.”
“Want you everywhere,” he choked out, head tossed back, beard scratching against the sheets. “Fuck, you make me—”
His words cut off into a moan as I nipped, then sucked hard at the tender skin in the hollow, marking him with a wet kiss. I let my tongue drag out, tasting him, breathing him, making a show of how much I loved every inch. His armpit was musky and hot, hair damp with sweat, and I feasted on it, groaning into him as his body trembled.
“Could live here,” I teased, voice muffled. “Could spend all night just worshipping your pits, making you beg.”
A laugh, desperate and broken, burst out of him. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re perfect,” I shot back, trailing kisses up his arm, biting his bicep, then sliding my tongue down the line of his chest.
My mouth hovered over his nipple, letting the heat of my breath tease the stiff peak before I took it between my lips. I sucked, gentle at first, then harder, tongue flicking, swirling, biting lightly. His hips shot up, cock leaking, head thrown back. One big hand found the back of my head, holding me there, needy and wild.
“Sensitive?” I smirked, lips glistening, breath fogging against his skin.
He only moaned, wordless, the need in him so sharp I could feel it in my own bones.
I moved to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention—licking, biting, flicking with my tongue, leaving it red and swollen, spit slick. My free hand explored everywhere else—up his ribs, across his stomach, tracing the hard line of muscle beneath the slight softness of age.
The tips of my fingers dipped below the band of his underwear, teasing at the trail of hair leading lower. But I didn’t give him the satisfaction of more, not yet.
“You’re shaking,” I teased, voice wicked, pride swelling at the sight of this mountain of a man undone beneath me. “Can’t handle a little attention?”
His laughter was more like a growl, hips rolling, cock throbbing against the fabric. “Keep running your mouth and see what happens.”
“Promises, promises,” I said, and then bent to take his nipple between my teeth again, sucking hard, tugging, working it until his whole body arched, a mess of muscle and sweat and hunger. I licked down his sternum, mouth dragging over his belly, pausing to press open-mouthed kisses to the thick muscle of his obliques, tongue tracing every line, every scar.
My hands roamed everywhere—over the hard swell of his quads, the thick meat of his thighs, the coarse hair that dusted his calves, the flex of his calves and the delicate skin behind his knee.
Every inch of him was worth savoring.
“God, you’re unreal,” I said, letting my palms glide up the backs of his thighs, thumbs digging into muscle, working the tension loose. “Never wanted anyone like this. Never needed anyone like this.”
Richard’s chest heaved, eyes wild, lips bitten red. “Take it, then. Take whatever you want.”
That permission—the surrender, the trust—lit a fire in my chest, burning away the last threads of restraint. My hands gripped his thighs, squeezing, kneading, savoring the thickness of them, the heat and weight and power. Every inch of Richard felt like a prize, and I wasn’t about to rush this.
“Gonna take my time with you,” I murmured, mouth trailing hot kisses down the path of his abs, letting my breath fog over the damp cotton stretched tight around his cock. The outline was obscene, thick and heavy, drooling a dark spot through the fabric. I mouthed at it, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the length, letting the heat of my breath soak in, teasing until he was cursing, hips pushing up for more.
“Easy,” I whispered, voice wrecked with want. “Let me unwrap you. Want to savor every fucking second.”
Fingers hooked beneath the waistband, dragging it slow, inch by inch, baring him. The anticipation sent a shiver through both of us—the sight of that thick, veined cock springing free, slapping heavy against his belly, flushed and leaking, begging for attention. My breath stuttered at the size, the weight, the raw beauty of it. Richard was a fucking beast, and all of it was for me.
“Jesus, you’re perfect,” I groaned, palm wrapping around the base, feeling the heft, the pulse beating under my hand. The skin was so hot, velvety soft, impossibly hard beneath it, and my thumb swept over the fat, weeping crown, gathering slick to smear down the shaft. I stroked him slow, admiring the way he flexed for me, every muscle standing out, body straining for more.
My tongue flicked out, tasting the salt, the sharp tang of him. I licked a slow line from the base up, flattening my tongue at the head, swirling around the slit, letting the precome coat my mouth. The taste went straight to my head—heady, addictive, so fucking male. I spat on the tip, messy and greedy, then licked it up, savoring every drop.
“God, you’re huge,” I whispered, voice thick. “Want to feel you choke me. Want to taste you in my throat.”
His hand tangled in my hair, but I shook my head, pinning him with a warning glare. “Don’t you move. I want this slow.”
My lips parted, taking him in inch by inch, savoring the stretch, the fullness, the way his cock forced my jaw wide. Spit ran down my chin, strings connecting us, making a mess of both of us. I sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, then let him slide out until just the head rested on my tongue, licking and teasing, stroking the shaft with both hands.
Every time I swallowed more, his hips jolted, a desperate sound tearing from his throat. I forced myself deeper, taking him all the way, nose buried in the wiry hair at his groin, the head bumping the back of my throat. Tears prickled at my eyes, but I stayed there, letting him feel the squeeze, the heat, the surrender.
