Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
I let him take the lead momentarily, letting him move his hips and take me at a pace he’s okay with. I have to grit my teeth to hold on to any sense of control until I’m able to move inside with ease.
He’s tight and hot, and as I stare down at where we’re connected, watching as I slowly move in and out of him, I’ve never seen a hotter sight.
Ever.
With an experimental thrust, I slam inside him and pause, waiting for the protest that doesn’t come.
“Sherlock, fuck. Do it again.”
I do as he says and don’t stop there.
Cashton’s fingers flex on the glass in front of him, his nails going white at the tips as if he’s trying to hold on to the slippery surface.
I wrap my arm around him and hold the sexy chains he wore onstage to his chest so if he does lose his grip on the window, he doesn’t put his head through it.
The pressure surrounding my cock doesn’t let up, just takes me higher and higher as our bodies meet over and over again until we’re both sweaty, trembling, and fighting the brink of orgasm.
“You need a hand?” I grunt. “Or are you going to come hands-free because you want to make me happy?”
He gives an inarticulate answer I can only take as an affirmative, but I can’t be sure.
My rhythm cracks the tiniest bit as I let out a growl. “Fuck, Cashton.”
The confident and dominating voice I’ve been using slips back to teenage me—the one who seemed like he was put together but really wasn’t.
The one who thought being mature and separating was the smart thing to do when it very well could be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
I’ve missed Cashton. I’ve missed all of him.
We’d never had sex this rough, this consuming, before, and yet being inside him still feels like I’m coming home after a long time away.
His ass clenches around my dick, and his breathing becomes shallow and stinted. “I’m gonna …”
“Do it,” I breathe. Suddenly, I’m the one begging now.
Cashton throws his head back, and cum shoots out of his untouched cock, hitting me on my forearm across his chest.
I push that tiny bit harder, thrust that tiny bit faster, until I’m shuddering and filling the condom.
My fingers dig into his skin so hard he mutters something about bruises, and I have to force myself to let up while I continue to pump into him, riding out the most intense orgasm of my life.
When I finally slow down, Cashton’s body turns to jelly, and I pull out of him. I find a trash can near the front of the bus and ditch the condom, tucking myself away in the process.
“My Sherlock,” he murmurs when I approach him again.
I’ll always be his Sherlock. Only, that’s not even my name anymore.
He’s still standing in the same position, and if I had the refractory period of my eighteen-year-old self, I’d want to go again. He has red marks from my hands on his hips, a used, slippery hole I want to fill again, and he’s still bent over in a way I could take erotic photos right now and have material for my spank bank for life.
What was he saying?
Oh. Right. Name.
“Uh, about that …”
Cashton straightens and turns to me.
My voice is croaky as I lay my confession out here. “I go by Locke now.”
His brown eyes blink at me until he realizes what I’m saying.
He pulls up his pants as fast as humanly possible. “Locke?”
“You know I’ve always hated my name.” I shrug. “So, I changed it. Legally.”
“When?” The question isn’t angry, per se, but he’s not going to be throwing me a new-name party anytime soon.
“Before I graduated Wharton. I wanted my new name on all my certificates.”
It’s as if I can see the millions of questions running through his head now our minds aren’t clouded by sex.
“We might need to talk about a few things,” I say.
Cashton folds his arms across his naked chest. “No fucking shit.”
This. This was the reaction I was expecting when we met up again.
If he hadn’t killed so many brain cells partying it up the rock star way and hadn’t forgotten me, I knew he’d have a problem with how I handled things eight years ago when I cut him out of my life completely.
I made what I thought was the right choice—the only choice.
When someone messes up, they have to face the consequences sooner or later, and my time has come.
Instead of yelling or getting right into it, Cashton approaches me and wraps me in a hug.
I’m surprised at first, and taken aback, but I melt into him, getting lost in the familiar feeling of his slightly shorter frame.
“I’ll yell at you in a minute,” he says. “Right now I want you to hold me and reassure me that you’re here. Please tell me this is real.”