Tell No Lies Excerpt: NSFW Art + Scene

Chapter 29

Calvin

 

"I am the professional here," I said pleasantly. "You are the enthusiastic amateur. Govern yourself accordingly."

He opened his mouth again. Closed it again. Then, with what I could tell was significant personal effort, he put both hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

"Noted," he said.

"Good boy."

He whimpered.

Turning away with a grin on my face, I stepped into the harness and adjusted the straps. When I turned back around he wasn't staring at the ceiling anymore.

He was staring at me.

The grin was gone. He was just… looking. His throat moved when he swallowed.

"Calvin," he said. Just that.

"I know," I said. And climbed back onto the bed.

Brody was propped against the pillows, studying me with a casualness that didn't fool either of us. I took my time—slicking my fingers with lube, settling between his thighs, letting him feel the patience in it. His exhale was long and harsh when I dragged my fingers over his entrance, like he'd been holding it since he hit the mattress.

"Good," I murmured.

He chuckled. "I haven't done anything yet."

"You're breathing." I stroked, unhurried, and watched him. "That counts."

He smiled and his shoulders dropped a fraction from where they'd been bunched around his ears. His cock was hard against his stomach—had been since before I'd gotten the harness on—and the sight of it was genuinely inconvenient. I wanted my mouth on him.

Later. Focus.

He reached down and gripped himself, almost absently. I quirked a brow.

"Hands," I said.

He dropped it. "You're bossy," he said with a smirk.

It vanished the moment I used a finger to breach that tight ring of muscle for the first time, slow and deliberate. I could practically see every thought leave his head as his jaw went slack.

"Still with me?"

"Mm." His eyes had gone dark. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" He stopped. His head dropped back. "Oh."

"Yeah," I said softly.

"That's—" He laughed, short and wondering. "Okay. That's—okay."

"Just okay?" I said.

He lifted his head and looked at me like he was considering several responses and discarding all of them. I pressed deeper, curling slightly, finding what I was looking for.

The sound he made wasn't a word. It wasn't anything close to a word. His muscles went taut and then immediately, helplessly loose, and his head dropped back against the pillow. I witnessed Brody Lancaster—who had an answer for everything, who had never in my presence been at a loss for a single syllable—just. Stop.

His cock jumped and he fisted his hands in the sheets.

"Brody?"

"I—" He stopped. Tried again. "I'm not—I don't—" He choked out a laugh, staring at me with utter bewilderment on his face. "What the fuck, Calvin?"

"I know," I said.

"No, I mean—" His hips shifted, chasing it, and he caught himself and went still and then chased it again anyway because his body had simply stopped consulting him. "I mean, what the fuck."

I kept my eyes on his face. A smile stretched across mine as I remembered our first night together. You'd love every second of it.

"Still just okay?" I asked.

He turned his head and looked at me, wrecked and open and not even trying to hide it.

"No," he said. "So much better than okay. So fucking—holy fuck, Calvin."

I worked him open methodically, adding a second finger and watching his whole body negotiate with the stretch of it—the way he'd tense and then consciously release, tense and release, like he was learning a new language in real time. His cock was harder still, flushed and neglected and apparently not requiring any attention whatsoever to stay that way.

Then his hips rolled, chasing my fingers, and his breath went ragged, and I looked up at his face and saw exactly where he was headed.

I withdrew.

He made a sound low in his throat—involuntary, barely there—that he almost certainly didn't mean to make. "Calvin—"

I ran my palm up the inside of his thigh. "Not yet."

He granted me another whimper that had me grinning. "You're killing me."

"You're fine." I smoothed my hand over his hip, waiting for his breathing to even out. "I'm not done with you. Not even close."

I gave him a moment. Let him breathe. His hands had gone loose at his sides and his chest was steadily rising and falling. He looked like he'd just had several foundational assumptions about himself gently revised.

"Still good?" I asked.

He lifted his head. His eyes dropped to the harness, then came back to my face. The grin tried to make an appearance and didn't quite land—there was too much of something else underneath it, crowding it out.

"Yeah," he said. "Come here."

I nudged his knees wider, settled between his thighs, and coated the dildo with lube, watching him watch me do it. His hands found my hips, warm and steady, and I wasn't sure which one of us he was anchoring.

I met his eyes.

"Slow," I said.

"Slow," he agreed.

I pressed forward, monitoring his face for every cue—the hitch in his breath, the momentary tightening around his eyes, the deliberate effort to stay open instead of closing against it. I stopped. Waited. His grip on me tightened.

"Keep going," he said quietly.

So I did.

And when he finally exhaled—long and shuddering and completely unguarded—he looked at me with an expression I didn't have a category for. The last of my footing went out from under me completely.

I was in serious trouble.

I had been for a while now. I was only just admitting it.

I found a rhythm. Slow at first, then less slow, and the harness was doing exactly what it was designed to do—pressure and friction building with every movement in a way I had absolutely accounted for but was now discovering I had not accounted for at all.

Not with him.

Not like this.

I rocked forward, and the angle had the breath punching right outta me.

"Fuck," I said, which I hadn't meant to say out loud.

Brody's eyes, which had been glued to where our bodies met, came back to my face immediately. Something shifted in them—surprise, then heat, then something that made my chest ache.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Shut up," I said, and did it again.

He groaned, low and helpless, his hips lifting to meet me, and I felt it everywhere—in my thighs, in my stomach, in that deep building pressure that was tightening fast and had been since before I'd fully admitted it to myself. I braced a hand on his chest and moved. He made a sound that short-circuited every coherent thought I had left.

"Calvin." Rough. Unsteady. My name like a question he already knew the answer to.

"Uh huh," I managed. My voice came out wrecked and I didn't care. I was past caring. I was past everything except the look on his face and the heat of his hands and the pressure cresting low in my belly and—

"I'm gonna—" he started.

"Me too," I said. "Brody—me too—"

His eyes found mine.

We didn't look away.

"Calvin—" His voice cracked. "Fuck, Calvin, I—"

"Come, Brody," I said. "Now."

He did.

Untouched.

Every muscle in his body locked up beneath me, hands gripping my hips so hard I thought he might leave bruises. A sound tore out of him that had nothing performed about it—raw and helpless and completely undone. I took in every second of it. I felt every second of it. The sight of him, the sound of him, the way he said my name like it was the only word he had left—it hit me like a fist. The pressure that had been coiling tight for so long snapped clean through and took me with it.

I came right along with him, shaking, graceless, my fingers curling into his chest and his name breaking through my lips and absolutely nothing left of the composure I'd started with. We fell apart together and I couldn't tell anymore where the control I'd had went, only that it was gone and I didn't miss it.