When I did speak, I could hear how low and rough my voice sounded, even to my own ears. “There you are, so good for me.”
I could feel his body shaking and it was so good, the movements small and frictionless against my body. I wanted to pull him tight enough against me that it hurt us both, until I couldn’t move without his whole body scraping against mine. I wanted him to be all mine. I had told him as much the other night.
The possessive words had nearly ruined everything.
I carefully swallowed them down this time and tried a new tactic. I still felt it, that stifling urge to consume Arlo altogether. But it wasn’t the right maneuver to get him on my side. If Arlo didn’t want to know how badly I wanted him to be mine, I would settle for him wanting to be mine.
“Don’t you like being good for me? Like knowing how pleased you’ve made me? Do you know how badly I want to reward you, sweet boy?”
Arlo was trembling, his breath caught in his throat and coming out in desperate puffs.
“There’s no one around,” I murmured. “No one to see what I would do to you, if you’d let me.”
I slid a hand around, gently running my fingertips along the waistband of his jeans. He gasped and I hid my smile against the side of his neck. “Would you let me? Slip my hand down your jeans, let my fingers trail across your skin? I can feel how warm you are. Are you hard for me, Arlo?”
Arlo could do nothing but stand there and take it—he couldn’t reach down and adjust himself, couldn’t do anything but watch out at the mouth of the alcove to hope that no one would come by. My pulse was hot and heady inside my veins and I knew that Arlo’s would be pounding just as hard.
“I—don’t do things like this,” he said, voice cracking as he tried to get the words out.
I pulled my hands back to his hips, squeezing tightly. A whimper fell out from his already parted lips and I chuckled lowly.
“I can tell how turned on you are, how much you like it,” I said, gently pressing my lips to the side of his neck, a gossamer kiss.
He tilted his head, eyes fallen shut and mouth parted, as if he was going to glare at me but didn’t have the energy to open his eyes. I could see the hard outline at the front of his jeans, his hands tightly holding on top of mine.
As turned on as Arlo appeared to be, I was shocked he hadn’t commented on my own appearance. I could barely keep myself from kissing him, from grabbing him and throwing him against the bench and taking him here. I felt dizzy with the barely tampered arousal.
With more strength than I thought I had, I carefully unwound myself from Arlo’s warm body and took a large step back. He nearly stumbled and I shot out an arm to grab his elbow and straighten him. He blinked at me, as if waking up.
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying for a casual smile. “I would never do anything you didn’t want. You can always tell me to stop.”
Arlo tilted his head. “Did I say to stop?”
A blush rushed to meet his words. I laughed.
“This is hardly how our first time should be,” I said, winking at him. His blush deepened. “Let me take you to dinner.”
“Ok—no.” He shook his head, frowning. “I can’t.”
“Arlo,” I began to protest.
“Sorry,” he said, still shaking his head. He seemed to be clearing it. “I have to finish some things at work.”
I wanted to argue but knew that would be pointless. Besides, this had been good—Arlo was finally starting to let go of his preconceived belief that he didn’t want this. I didn’t need to push it.
“Soon,” I said, taking a small step forward.
He swayed a little closer to me. “Soon,” he agreed, before turning and leaving the alcove. He looked around guiltily, shoulders drooping when no one seemed to give us a second thought.
As we walked back to the exit of the zoo, I couldn’t help steal fervent glances at him. Soon couldn’t come fast enough.
7
Arlo
Normally, a slow day at the tea shop was a worrisome, stressful affair. No business meant no money which, eventually, would mean no business.
Today, though, I was grateful for the reprise.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Walter’s smooth, velvet voice in my ear, and his warm breath on my skin. My reaction to his presence—his words—at the zoo was so out of character, so unlike me, that I felt shook to my core.
I wasn’t the kind of guy to lose his shit over some dirty words or a hot mouth. I certainly wasn’t the kind of guy to lose my shit over that in public.
Except the other day, hidden away in a small alcove with Walter just inches away from me, I sort of was that kind of guy. I sort of really liked being that kind of guy, too.
I shivered, remembering the way his voice had dripped down me like melted chocolate.
There was no one in the shop—not even Jeremy was in to laugh or torment me—and I couldn’t stop myself from sliding out my phone and opening an incognito browser.
I hesitated with my thumb over the keyboard. What would I even look up? How would I Google “my sort of sugar daddy makes me feel things in public”?
I groaned, dropped my phone back in my pocket, and distracted myself by making a pot of chamomile tea.
My hands were kept busy by the task but my mind still wandered.
There was this side of me, this submissive side, that Walter brought out that no one else ever had. Walter made me want things that I didn’t know how to ask for, made me want things I didn’t even know how to have—it was terrifying.
It was also fascinating.
I finished the tea, setting it down to steep as I sat perched half on a stool behind the counter. My hands shook a little as I slid out my phone for a second time and, hesitating only slightly this time, looked up an article on submissive dynamics.
It took some digging—clicking from one article to the next, searching for a site that didn’t seem dauntingly leather-clad or heavily Christian orthodox, but eventually, there was a site that seemed to be “intro-kink friendly”, according to the banner across the top.
My heart leapt in my chest as I read each tab. Some were really out there—I couldn’t imagine ever doing some of the things listed—while others rang a little too close to home. I could feel my skin flushing, the blood rushing to my face as I read about the things that I could all too easily imagine Walter doing.
I remembered the way Walter’s breath had felt on my skin, his lips against the skin of my neck—the way his fingers had burned through the thick strap of denim, only inches above where I really wanted him to touch.
The thrill I had felt when his words had registered, the heart-aching desperation I had felt when he had called me good—I had never felt that way before.
And, too, as badly as I wanted Walter, I knew that he wanted me just as badly. But there was more there—more than just blatant desire, though we had that in spades. The look of careful assurance when he had taken a step away from me, promising to listen to what I wanted and not coerce me. I could still feel the fluttering feeling of trust—just a split second of it, but all the more tantalizing and desirable for its fleetingness.
I didn’t know what the hell I was getting myself into—but I was fairly sure I liked it.