Page 70 of Poetry On Ice

And then suddenly, I’m kissing and licking any part of him I can make contact with. I pry him apart and lap at his opening. I kiss his ass like it’s a mouth. I drizzle lube all over it and finger it as I kiss him, slap him, and bite him all over again.

He moans from my ministrations, but the whole time I’m working him over, the entire fucking time, he doesn’t stop laughing. It’s that, the soft, hoarse giggle that comes at me from deep under the covers, that undoes me.

As much as I love what I’m doing, as much as it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, to my amazement, I find there’s something I want more.

I throw back the covers and gasp when I see it: Robbie McGuire’s beautiful face. It’s pink and disheveled, squished into the mattress. There are fine lines creased into his cheek. His teeth are snow white. Large and completely exposed. He’s smiling so hard his eyes are only open a slit.

“What happened to using me like a Fleshlight?” he asks, blinking from the shock of the sudden influx of light.

I tap him firmly on the outer thigh to get him to scoot over. I take the space he freed, lying on my back and slicking up my throbbing cock.

“Next time,” I promise. “I’ll use you as a Fleshlight next time. Right now, I want you to sit on my lap and ride like the Princess you are.”

I don’t need to tell him twice.

27

Robbie McGuire

I’m full.

I’m so full.

The only thing I feel is full. A bulbous stretch, a deep pull inside me. There’s a big dick crammed up my ass, and the only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want it to stop.

Ant’s moving, thrusting slowly and deeply. He’s leaning against the headboard, and I’m sitting astride him. I have my hands around his neck, fingers knotted in his hair, and I’m moving with him.

It started out frenzied, but it’s slowed. I’m grinding my hips now rather than posting up and down. Each time I do it, I feel it more than I did the last time. A flare of pressure. A delicious heat and a gentle burn. The curve of his dick keeps hitting my spot, sending long, sustained bolts of pleasure up my ass.

It feels so good that I don’t know how much longer I can take it. I want to give in. I want to throw myselfinto the abyss. Into the darkness that makes me forget my own name. I don’t though. I can’t because Ant’s eyes are open, anchoring me to this realm, and I can’t look away.

I stay like that, with him, looking into his eyes until he groans, “You close?”

I answer by leaning back, putting my hands on his knees, and arching my back. He takes my dick in one hand and circles it tightly. He doesn’t move it all that much but rather lets the motion of my own hips be the source of my torture. My torment. My endless pleasure.

“Close,” I pant, throwing myself forward so I can kiss him and whisper the secrets of my orgasm into his wide-open mouth.

He lets me.

Not only that, but as he starts to shake and jerk and empty himself inside me, he whispers his own secrets back to me.

It’s the first time I’ve ever come with my eyes open. His eyes stay open too. Dark orbs take on a life of their own, galaxies form and expand, and in the deepest, darkest recess of him, I see something. A plan. A rudimentary map. A clear outline of the rest of my life.

Neither of us moves until he’s softened and slipped out of me, and neither of us talks, not even me.

We lie in a heap, a tangle of arms and legs, and when we start to cramp from the awkwardness of our position, he shuffles onto his side and then onto his belly, stretching his legs out to release a spasm in one of his calves.

I lie beside him and take in the colored expanse of his skin. It’s beautiful. Unexpected and strangely lovely, like him. I trace the lines of his tattoos gently. I take my time with the roses, following the intricacies of each petal with my fingertip. I take in every detail. Every color. Every shade of black. Every knob of his spine.

“I love this one,” I say, kissing the face of the swallow on his left shoulder. “And this one.” I kiss each rose in turn. “And this too.” This time, it’s the viper that winds around his spine, and instead of kissing it, I trace the outline with the tip of my tongue. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” I say dreamily, not really expecting an answer.

“Really? Why’d you never get one then?”

“Ugh, I dunno. Probably because I’ve never been able to think of something I know I’d love forever.”

“Mm,” he murmurs. It’s less of an agreement and more of an acknowledgment of the fact I’ve spoken. From the sliver I can see of his face, it seems sleep has almost found him.

I tug at his shoulder, rolling him onto his side and melding my body to his. For once, I’m the big spoon andhe’s the little one. To my surprise, he doesn’t fight it at all. He just sighs in faux exasperation.