Pretty Boy: The Boys of Apartment 13 Book 1, page 10
But then my bed dips behind me, and I flinch.
“Morning.” He shuffles closer, fitting his body to my back and pressing his cold nose into my neck, not even hiding it when he inhales deeply like a freak. “You smell good.”
I don’t know what to say to that, my brain still lagging after the heavy sleep. Honestly, I doubt I would know how to respond even if I hadn’t just woken up.
“Are you pretending to be asleep? I saw your eyes open.”
I turn around, having to shield my eyes from the bright sunlight. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven.”
I should expect it when he simply moves back into my space, basically gluing his body to mine chest to chest, but I don’t. And I definitely don’t know how to react to it. Well, I don’t know how I should react, but it does seem that sleep has made me more willing to deal with him. More unwilling to pretend I don’t want to touch him, most likely.
I slip a leg between his, bending it so that my thigh is pressed between his legs, and let a hand settle on the curve of his ass. I’m still tired and sleepy, and I blame that for the way my lips immediately find his skin.
My mouth works its way down his throat before moving across his collarbone, and I spot one of those beauty marks on his throat and just have to taste it, lick and suck at it and simultaneously slip my hand under the band of his briefs to palm the bare skin of his perky ass. His moans are encouraging, and the way he’s grinding his half-hard cock against my thigh is even more so. It spurs me on and has me moving until I’m over him and pushing at the fabric between us until it becomes clear that he has to help me. He kicks his underwear off and then drags me back onto him, pulling me until I’m between those legs that always seem so eager to spread for me.
He wordlessly directs me to keep kissing his skin with a hand fisted in my hair and another clutching my ass until I’m pressed against him. I don’t even realize how hard I am until our erections meet, and he gasps.
“Fuck.” Our foreheads touch as I roll my hips into his, and he reaches down to shove my sweats lower, so I sit up to do it for him. He misses the contact enough that he lets out a needy little whine, immediately reaching for me. I don’t let him grab me, though. Instead, I move off the bed, getting my pants off all the way, and start lazily stroking myself as I watch him. “Touch yourself.”
“I––no. You do it,” he tells me, his voice quiet as he watches my hand slide up and down my length.
I kind of expected that, but I laugh all the same. I was only teasing when I called him a princess last night, but it fits. He is one, and I’m obsessed with that part of him. I’ve been with bossy guys, power bottoms that top from the bottom and demand what they want, but Liam only kind of fits that bill. He’s demanding. He tells me what he wants, but he’s so delicate with the way he says things.
I’ve never told a man that I want to fuck his needy little cunt, that I want his pussy squeezing my dick until I come inside him. I’ve never considered a guy who’s too lazy to touch himself, especially one as big as he is, to be a cute pillow princess, but here we are.
“You only want me touching you, is that right, princess?”
“Yes.” His breath hitches as, despite his assurance that he only wants my hands on him, he palms his pecs––his tits, as I’d called them last night––lightly swiveling his hips as I move between them once again.
“What do you want? Tell me.” But he doesn’t speak as he moves my head down, and I know I’d be pissed if anyone else did this to me, but I let him. I let him slowly move me until I’m at eye level with his dick, and then I don’t even take a second to breathe before my mouth is on him. I taste, suck the bead of precum off his tip, and then sink down until he’s in my throat and swallow.
“Yes,” he pants, and it’s just the first of many that leave his mouth as I work him over, bobbing my head up and down, rolling my tongue over the head on each pass and savoring every one of those little yeses he feeds me.
It’s minutes of this before I remember my own dick, hard and leaking. Fucking desperate for release, but I’m too focused on him and the way he only barely rocks his hips, being polite with the way he’s using my mouth to do anything about it. I fucking adore that. Him, his personality, and the way he showcases it when we fuck. Like he trusts me to take care if him, to give him what he needs because no way is he going to just take it.
“I’m gonna come!” he calls out as his back arches, pushing himself into the opening of my throat once more, unable to help himself as his orgasm rolls its way down his body. I don’t pull off, more than ready for it, but when his cock finally swells and his balls unload down my throat, I do not at all expect that much to flood my mouth. It surprises me how much I have to swallow.
He comes untouched a lot, almost exclusively, and when that’s the case, there’s barely any cum at all.
“God,” he pants when I finally pull off of him, and I can’t help but notice how quickly his body relaxes. He doesn’t stay hard, urge me to keep going, and he doesn’t rub his hands all over himself like he’s prolonging the sensations wracking his body. There are a lot of differences, and I pay attention to all of them.
I kind of miss the show he usually gives me as he’s coming, miss all the moaning and quiet whimpering, the way he pinches his nipples and can’t stay still even long after he’s stopped spilling. I’m stroking myself between his legs, just thinking about all of that when he finally opens his eyes.
“I want to… I’ve never done it, but you can show me. Teach me how to make you come, Bash. Please?”
I hate when he looks at me like that. Like I make him feel insecure and unsure of himself. His eyes look so much better when I’m making him feel good.
I’m pretty sure the only time I manage that is when we’re having sex, and that’s––I don’t even know why that bothers me so much.
“You don’t have to do that.” I stop touching myself, my thoughts on their way to killing my mood.
“But I want to.” He sits up and crawls, moving to his knees on the floor at the side of the bed and looking up at me with a plea in those dark brown eyes of his that I can’t ignore. “You just have to tell me how to make it good for you. I don’t––I doubt I can deepthroat,” he blushes as he places his hands flat on my sheet, and my jaw tenses at the sight. “I won’t be as good as you are at it, but I mean… a blowjob’s a blowjob, right?”
“You’ll be perfect.” I sound a little more gruff than I mean to as I say it, but I’m positive I’m right. “I’ll like whatever you do, Liam.”
And I do. Seeing this boy on his knees for me is heady, the sight alone enough to have my balls pulling tight. The tentative way he grips me and the way his eyes flutter closed at that first kittenish lick, making his long lashes fan his cheekbones as he moans quietly at the taste. God, all of it has me sitting rigid as I try and force myself to stay still. When he finally takes me in his mouth, lets me stretch his pouty lips wide, and flattens his tongue along the underside of my dick, I moan. He looks up at me, seemingly pleased at the sound, and I have to touch him. I palm his cheeks and relish the look in his eyes.
Nobody has ever looked at me like that, like making me feel good is his sole purpose for existing in this moment. My pretty little pillow princess taking the time and care to make me feel good is everything.
He bobs his head up and down, taking me a little deeper each time, and I’m content to just let him be. I keep my hands where they are, touching him but not leading him. He’s moving slowly enough that the little bit of teeth that grazes me every so often actually feels good, has my thighs shaking.
“Suck,” I tell him, and he listens, hollows his cheeks for me, and moans as he does exactly what I want him to. “Oh, fuck,” I hiss, leaning back a bit and flexing my hips to stop myself from fucking his mouth. “Just like that, sweetheart.”
He lets out a little whine, shuffling on his knees as he moves closer and ends up gagging on me a bit. It embarrasses him and has him pulling off and apologizing, but doesn’t he see how fucking good he’s making me feel? I should tell him, but I can’t. Instead, I lean down and kiss his swollen lips before shaking my head. I tell him to keep a grip around the base to stop him from going too low and then wait for him as he gets back into a steady rhythm of sucking and licking me.
All too soon, I’m on the brink of falling apart, breathing heavily and fighting the urge to throw my head back because as good as it feels and as much as I want to focus on that, I have to see him. My fingers slip through his soft hair, and he loves it. God, he loves it, my hands on him. I know he does. I see it in the way he responds every single time I touch him.
He’s so fucking beautiful like this, mouth full of cock and eyes full of tears.
“I’m close,” I warn him, trying to gently push him off of me, but he shakes his head the slightest bit and just continues what he’s doing, moaning around me and moving faster, letting his hand follow his lips and stroking me with every bob of his head. I grab his head in a firm hold when I start to come, my muscles tightening and eyes rolling back into my head at the way he keeps stroking what he can, even as his mouth stays sucking at just the tip, his tongue pointed as it digs into my slit. He swallows every bit, moaning louder than I am as he does it.
I’m oversensitive almost instantly. I make sure to carefully pull him off of me and then cradle his face as I lean down, sweeping my tongue against his and mixing the taste of us right in his mouth.
“Perfect,” I speak the word against his lips and hope that he knows I mean it, that he believes it because he was perfect. He is perfect.
I lean back, intending to give him room to get up, but all he does is lay his head in my lap, still breathing heavily as he lets his eyes close. When my fingers find their way into his hair once again, lightly scratching at his scalp, he moves his arms until they’re around me, buries his nose in my groin, and very unsubtly inhales. Deeply.
My chest swells at the sight. This is weird. He’s fucking weird. He doesn’t act like a guy who was straight before meeting me. At least not when we’re alone.
“Come on.”
He sits up, his eyes still a touch unfocused as he looks at my soft cock. I barely have time to appreciate the way his face looks after being fucked when he leans back in so quickly before standing up that I can’t be sure, but I think… “Did you just kiss my dick?”
“Just a little,” he says defensively, putting his hands straight up in the air as he stretches out. I’m speechless. What do I even say to that? “Any plans today?”
“Yeah, I have shit to do.” It was a reflex, something I said without thinking and in a tone that has him once again staring at me like I make him feel small. I do have things to do, a long drive, and an awkward birthday dinner to sit through, but I didn’t have to say it like that.
“Yeah, okay. I guess I’ll go.” He looks at me, just for a second or two, but it feels endless. It feels like he’s giving me all the time in the world to fix this, to tell him that he can stay or apologize or say anything at all to assure him that I, at the very least, don’t hate him. “Will I see you again?”
I watch him, see it when my silence convinces him that I don’t want that, but––even though I have no clue why I want to keep seeing this baby bi––I do. I do want to see him again. And again. I don’t even want him to leave right now, but I have to shower, get dressed, and then go pick Anna up.
“Yeah,” I tell him, biting my tongue so I don’t say too much. I run a heavy hand through my hair when he immediately smiles, finding it ridiculous how quickly that look eases the pressure in my chest.
Eleven
Liam
“Is there such a thing as a hand fetish?”
“What do you mean?” Baby asks, sitting on the floor in front of the couch I’m currently sprawled out on.
“Exactly what I said,” I tell him, looking at him like he’s the one saying weird shit.
“Okay… well, probably. Some people are into being pissed on, so I’m guessing, yeah. There are probably some people who really like hands.”
“Wait. What?”
“There are all kinds of kinks, Liam,” he sighs, just glossing over that little bomb he dropped and pointing the remote at the TV when Netflix asks if we’re still watching. “Is––do you like… hands?”
“Better than him liking feet,” Logan pops up, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. I didn’t even know that he was here. He hardly ever is.
“Of course, you’d be a kink-shamer.” Baby only spares him a swift glance before quickly going back to looking at the TV.
I purse my lips, thinking about it. “Is it a kink if I only like one person’s hands?”
“What’s so great about her hands? Girls have small hands.” He holds his out in front of him, examining them, and I frown. Yeah, I’ve never been too enamored with any girl’s hands before. I’m not even really sure what it is about Bash’s hands that do it for me. They just look nice. Strong, with tattoos and veins.
I bite my lip, thinking about them, about how good it’d feel just to have him hold me again. Touch me. He did not like me sleeping in his bed with him. At all, but when I basically climbed on top of him and put his arms around me, he didn’t fight it. He just squeezed me. He held me and let his thumbs rub gentle patterns on my skin for so long that those little areas of flesh started to feel numb.
What would my roommates think if I told them it was a guy’s hands I was kink-level obsessed with?
“I’m not a kink-shamer. I have kinks. I like––”
“I don’t care what you like, Logan. Go away.” He flicks his hand, dismissing him without even looking over at him. “And there are rules about being naked in the common areas for a reason!”
“Wait!” I call out just as Logan starts to wordlessly walk down the hall. “What do you like?” I’m curious, but also, I don’t believe that Baby isn’t.
“I like tying people up,” he shrugs. “Impact play. Edging.”
“Oh.” None of those are anything I’m interested in. “I hate edging. I can’t do it.” I can’t. I remember trying it in the hopes I’d be able to prolong my jerk-off sessions, but I always end up rushing to the big finish anyway.
“Oh, I could edge you, Liam.” He smiles, and I involuntarily tense at the predatory gleam in his eyes. “Tie you up and tease you. Bring you to the edge over and over again for hours, wait until you’re crying and begging for it, and still deny you.” His voice reminds me of Bash’s right now, deep and husky. Sultry in a way that has me aware of every square inch of my skin. “You’d end up coming without my say-so, and then I’d have to spank you for being such a bad boy.” And then he winks and turns to walk away.
“Oh.” Has he always been so… I don’t think I’d like being spanked. Not even if Bash did it. And I really doubt he could edge me, at least not if my ass was involved. That thing has a hair-trigger, otherwise known as the most sensitive male g-spot in existence. My prostate does not mess around. Just call me Doc Holliday because I shoot fast. “Does he like guys?” I don’t think he does. He was just teasing.
“No,” Baby scoffs, and I look down to see him glaring at the hallway, his cheeks flushed and fists balled tightly on top of his thighs. “God. I hate him.”
I’m about to ask why he hates him so much when someone knocks on the front door.
“You get it,” he says, standing up and immediately heading towards his room even though we were watching something together.
I don’t usually have visitors, not the kind that show up out of the blue, so I doubt it’s for me, but I get up and answer it anyway.
“Dad.” He’s the last person I expected to open the door and see, but I’m happy he’s here. Sort of. Maybe. It depends on why he’s here, and as I think of some possible reasons that he’d just show up like this, I start to get nervous.
When he starts complaining about the number thirteen on our door being painted pink, I do my best to ignore it. It’s literally just a fucking color, but according to him, a house full of guys doesn’t need a door with any bit of pink on it.
“You going to let me in?” He’s smiling, so obviously in a good mood.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I had some free time and figured it’s been a while.” That’s true. I haven’t seen him since the baseball season ended. Since before I decided I wasn’t going to play anymore. Or started fucking a guy. “We could hit the mall. You could probably use some new school clothes. Oh, and they just opened that new sporting goods store there. We could check it out, maybe get you some new gear.”
I need to tell him that I’m quitting. No way can I let him spend a bunch of money on stuff I won’t even be needing anymore. “Uh, I kind of wanted to talk to you, actually.” I clear my throat when he looks at his smart watch and starts typing on it, still standing in front of the door he just closed.
“About what?” He still doesn’t look at me, and I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not.
“Baseball.”
Now he looks at me, his dark brown brows furrowed low over his eyes. I look like a good mix of both of my parents, but I do get my eyes from my dad. Dark brown and narrow. I wonder if I manage to look as unhappy as he does all the time.
“What about it?”
“Uh,” I palm the back of my neck, rubbing lightly before I remember how much he hates when I fidget and put my arm down. “Well, I kind of want to…” Fuck. This is hard. He cocks his head, getting impatient, and I know that the best course of action here is to just say it. Rip the bandaid off. “I’m going to quit.” My body stills, my eyes widening as I let the weight of what I just said hold me down. It stops me from cringing, from looking away.
“That’s ridiculous.” He smiles, and I know that he doesn’t believe me. What I’m saying doesn’t make any sense to him.
“I want to quit. I am quitting, I mean.”
“No.”
“No?” But I expected this, and when he looks at me like he’s getting ready to scream, I keep going. “I don’t want to play anymore, Dad. It’s not––It’s not my future. I want to focus on my classes and––”
