Series: Peach State Stepbros Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79283 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“That all you got?” Taylor asks breathlessly.
“Aw, come on, Tay. Don’t pretend you weren’t going to shoot your load. Quick trigger.” He wasn’t going to come yet, but I can’t help teasing him.
In response, he threads his fingers through my hair, gripping it tightly and pulling me back down toward his shaft. I tug him so he scoots down farther off the couch, then bury my face in his nuts first, licking and sucking them, breathing in the scent of him.
“Eh…” he pants. “Not…bad so far.”
“Yeah, because you’re not struggling to even speak right now.”
I suck his dick to the back of my throat again, bob my head on his shaft, tasting the salt of his skin that makes me dizzy with lust. I use my hand to play with his balls, wetting his cock, treating it like it’s my favorite damn thing as Taylor drops his head back against the couch.
I pull off him, stroke him a few times as he gazes down at me pleasure-drunk, and honestly, looking a bit loopy.
“Fuck. Want your mouth again,” he says as my hand slides up and down his hot, hard length.
“When I let you back inside, I want you to show me what you can do, Tay. I love having my face fucked, love the feel of choking on a dick.”
“Jesus,” he groans, and as soon as my mouth is close enough, Taylor thrusts up into it, lets loose on me the way I asked, and I can’t help wondering if he would have been this comfortable with anyone but me. Taylor knows he doesn’t have to hide any part of himself from me, though; that’s not how our friendship works.
He makes my eyes water as I let him use my face the way I crave, feel the tight muscles of his thighs beneath my hands. Taylor isn’t a big guy—he’s skinny and doesn’t have a lot of bulging muscles, but I feel them tense and constrict as he moves.
The sound of my sucking is loud, saliva running down my chin and his shaft, wetting his balls that I’m dying to taste again.
I shove my left hand under his shirt, plucking at his nipples while sucking his dick, and trying to ignore my neglected, aching cock.
“That’s so good. Shit, Bren. I can’t. I’m gonna…”
I rip my mouth off his dick and say, “Give it to me,” then take him deep again. His hips flex upward, body trembling as he tries to hold off on his orgasm as long as he can before he tenses, body bowing slightly as he’s filling my mouth with his thick, salty load. I keep swallowing around him, sucking his balls dry, wanting more even though I must admit, Taylor has a huge fucking load.
“I love cum,” I tell him, licking some that dripped down his shaft and collected on his balls.
His chest rises and lowers with deep breaths. “That’s it. Lick it all up.”
Who the hell is this Taylor? I never expected to hear orders like that fall from his mouth, but still, I do what he says, wanting every drop of jizz I can find. Then I’m shoving to my feet, tugging my shorts down, kneeling on the couch, spitting in my hand and jerking myself off until the bliss pulls me under and I’m shooting all over Taylor’s chest. “Aw, look at you. You look pretty all painted with my load,” I tease, then fall to the couch beside him.
Taylor keeps breathing heavily, and I wait for him to come down, ready to hear what he’ll say next.
“Sooo?” I ask.
His gaze wanders slightly. “Six out of ten.”
“Liar,” I reply, and we both laugh. I say a silent thank-you that we’re okay, that this wasn’t a mistake and nothing will change between us, because I don’t know what I would do without my best friend.
1
Taylor
Late summer
Bren rests his elbows on the pool deck, his abs naturally flexing as he glances up, the sun reflecting off his sunglasses and glistening on the sunscreen across his tanned flesh. The bronze of his skin is the perfect backdrop for the tats on his chest and arms—each with a meaning.
Each with a story of when he finally decided to get it.
The face of the tiger on his right pec, for strength.
The poetic scene on his forearm, displaying his creativity.
And a few others just because he was in the mood, his impulsivity.
We’re a few feet from each other, waist-deep in the swimming pool of the cruise ship. Brenner takes a sip of his giant-ass rum punch, then says, “This is the fucking life. I can’t believe how long we’ve known each other, and you’ve never invited me on one of these cruises before.”
Mom and I have always taken our little trips together. A sort of ritual we made since she divorced my dad. Little vacations to get away from it all, but apparently this past year, I made them sound fun enough that my buddy asked if he could tag along on our seven-day Caribbean getaway. I must admit, it’s been even more fun than usual since now we can hit up the bars. I’m also not the outgoing, charismatic person Bren is, so I meet a hell of a lot more people whenever he’s around, which is always nice. I’ve never been much of a talker. Maybe that’s why I like being around him so much—he can do the talking for the both of us.