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Firefight

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My skin felt like it was on fire. Undulating waves of lust ravaged my body. A restless urge that had snaked under my flesh, limbs moving erratically, back arched off the bed. My legs parted, wide, unashamed. Hips rolling dirty circles against the air. I bucked, raking my nails down my thighs. I was leaking already, leaving a mess on my stomach, I wanted to touch, I wanted to be touched. I writhed, uncaring that I was being watching, liking I was being watched.

“Peter,” he gasped, a flush on his cheeks, his eyes dark. The room was heavy with the scent of my sex. But it was his cologne I smelled, I breathed in deep, imagining the taste of his cock on my tongue. I licked my lips, shuddering.

He was still dressed. Neat tie pressed against his throat, his Adam’s apple jumping against the windsor knot. His fingers clenching his trousers, knuckles white. The door was stark open, but his hands moved, shutting it quickly. His eyes never left my body.

“I need,” I gasped, closing my eyes, thrusting my hips. He inhaled sharply, sudden footsteps. I felt, rather than saw, him loom over me.

“What happened, Peter?” He asked, he ran a finger down my face and turned into the touch, biting, licking, swallowing his finger whole. I cracked open my eyelids. He was staring at me with wide eyes, mouth half open, the line of his trousers ruined by the erection poking through the worsted wool. I leaned closer, saliva dripping from my mouth, and rubbed my cheek against his cock.

“I want,” I whispered, pressing open mouthed kisses against his cock, smearing my spit against the wool. He shuddered, his hips jerking once, before he stilled himself. I hungered more, for the power he was restraining.

“What do you want, Peter?” He said, taking his finger out of my mouth, tilting my face up. His hands, ice cold against my heated cheeks,  braced my face, pulling me closer. I could almost taste him on my tongue, the thick saltiness. I ached with longing. The passion surged through me, leaving me wrung out and raw.

“You,” and the word was choked out of me as I thrust into empty air, hot come lacing my skin. I shivered, collapsing on the bed.

Coming cleared my head for a second.

“I shouldn’t have accepted the flowers,” I gasped, guiltily eyeing the posies, lust slurring my words. His eyes flashed for a moment, dark and dangerous, and then the flowers were on fire. Scorched to ashes in seconds. I swallowed. He stepped closer, coiled power, and my cock jerked.

I was still hard and Nightingale torching the flowers hadn’t extinguished the lust rampaging through my body. I could feel it build up against me and I moaned. Fearing it, wanting it, wanting him.

“Peter,” he said, and he traced a finger down my body, tracing the sensitive skin around my nipples, through the come on my stomach. He laid his hand flat there, nails digging crescents into my skin. My muscles twitched under his touch, my cock knocking against his wrist.

“I still fucking want you,” I said, the nails digging in deeper for a second, "I have for a while." He closed his eyes, sinking into the bed.

Then, eyes still closed, he moved, wrapping a hand around my still hard prick.

"We'll talk about this later," he said. "When you're not," and he paused, taking in my naked body. "We'll talk."

I was moving beyond words again.

“Whatever you need, Peter,” he said, lowering his mouth, a ghost of a kiss across my chest, mouth rounding around my cockhead. His hand tightened around my cock and I arched, shuddering, at the heat overtook me again.