OLIVER
After he canceled his afternoon appointments, Oliver went straight home from the courthouse. He wanted to be waiting when Blake got there.
He’d parked in the garage and closed the door completely behind him. Usually when he was home, he left it open a crack. He had a likely irrational fear of carbon monoxide accumulation. But today, he made an effort to show no sign anyone was home but Cujo. He had a feeling that, otherwise, Blake would flee. On the other hand, while Blake had to know there was a chance Oliver would be there, he’d risk running into Oliver to ensure that Cujo’s schedule was adhered to.
When he got home, Oliver let Cujo out of her kennel. She stepped out with her usual caution, setting one careful paw on the carpet and then rushing the rest of the way. But instead of relocating to a place several feet away—outside of kicking range, as Blake had explained with a grimace on the day that they’d met—she lingered at Oliver’s feet with her head tilted back. When Oliver looked down in surprise, her crooked little white-tipped tail wagged slowly.
Just like that, all of his distress over the morning’s events disappeared.
“You darling little girl,” he cooed. Her tail wagged a little more confidently, and her pink tongue appeared between her razor-sharp incisors. Then, she turned around without further fanfare and led the way to the back door so that Oliver could let her out into the yard.
He’d had it fenced just for her, but the landscaping had matured over the past year, and the enclosure no longer looked new. He remembered consulting Blake about the type of fencing, probably the second time they’d ever met. He’d even had the company bring by samples, propped against the side of the house under the veranda. Blake, he recalled, had taken the entire process very seriously. Though, now, Oliver wondered if he’d just been humoring him.
They’d chosen a tight woven-wire that would keep out threats to a dog so small, as well as keeping her secure. The wire was mounted between wooden supports with wrought-iron embellishments, all powder-coated and painted black. It was a very handsome fence, which was good, considering that it had cost Oliver almost twenty thousand dollars.
That had been just one of many in-depth undertakings that Blake had been involved with. And some of them didn’t even relate to Cujo. Blake had a great eye for art—he’d studied it in school, though when Oliver had tried to talk him into showing Oliver some of his work, Blake had dodged him. However, he had been convinced to help Oliver expand his modest fine art collection, and Blake had convinced him to get rid of a few things that, as it turned out, had been declining in value since Oliver had bought them, unbeknownst to him.
Blake had been full of surprises during the months they’d known one another—today had been the first unpleasant one.
Oliver leaned against the door and watched Cujo make a focused inspection of the entire perimeter before finally squatting to pee and bounding back to him. He gave her the treat she expected.
Back inside, Oliver settled in his chair in the library near her kennel. She lay at his feet with one of her bones. From there, he could see through the archway between the library and foyer. That’s how they were arranged when Blake unlocked the door and appeared in the doorway with a hunted expression, frozen at the sight of Oliver.
In the courtroom, Oliver had felt like he’d been seeing Blake for the first time. But had it been because of the shock of seeing him straight from jail in cuffs and a uniform, or more related to their subtle moment of contact on Friday, and Oliver’s ruminations in the days since?
Oliver couldn’t say, but Blake looked different to him now. Those dark eyes mesmerized, and those strong, sloping shoulders begged to be stroked. When Oliver’s imagination began to speculate about Blake’s red-lipped mouth, he averted his eyes to collect himself.
Cujo hadn’t even gotten up to bark at the door, Oliver realized belatedly. When she did get up, she calmly trotted over to Blake and waited for him to feed her.
Still standing just inside the door, Blake dropped to one knee so he could present Cujo with her pile of treats. She vacuumed them up and then immediately came back for the bone she’d left by Oliver. He picked it up by the dry end and tossed it into her kennel, and when she followed, he closed the door behind her.
When he turned, Blake was still kneeling on the floor. Oliver walked briskly toward him, expecting him to rise. But he didn’t. Oliver slowed his steps, coming to a stop just a stride away.
If he came any closer, it would be undeniable that Blake was kneeling at his feet.
Damn. That stray thought wasn’t useful at all.
Because Oliver wanted Blake kneeling at his feet.
He hesitated. But it felt inevitable. His defenses were compromised. It had been a matter of time, really, since Friday.
Very slowly and very deliberately, holding Blake’s stare with his, he took that final step. Now, he was very much looking down at Blake, asking a silent question.
Blake eased his bent leg beneath him so that he rested on both of his knees, giving a wordless answer.
Oliver cupped his jaw. Blake’s face felt just as smooth as it looked, with no hint of a beard, and his eyes shone beneath dark, feathery eyebrows. His hair was pulled back into a messy bun, but it was clean and shiny. Oliver could smell his soap. Of course, he’d washed the stink of the jail off of himself. At the thought of Blake’s arrest, Oliver frowned and gripped his chin more tightly. Tight enough that, if he kept it up, his fingers would leave marks.
Instead of jerking away, Blake remained completely pliant. He spread his hands over his knees and simply looked at Oliver, silent and obedient and beautiful.
“I didn’t know you did drugs,” Oliver said.
Blake blinked, guileless. “I didn’t know you were a judge.” His voice was muffled by the restraint of Oliver’s hold on his jaw.
Oliver narrowed his eyes. Keeping his thumb under the point of Blake’s chin, he stroked his other four fingers over Blake’s throat. Blake blushed and his breath hitched. Oliver felt his convulsive swallow against his knuckles—and in his cock. God, it had been a while since he’d been swept up this quickly. Years. Not since he’d met Emile, which felt like a lifetime ago. He slipped his hand around Blake’s throat, his grip firm but not compressing. Tight enough to feel each pulse of blood and rush of breath, but not tight enough to inhibit his pulse or breathing.
Not just yet.
Still, at the very suggestion of pressure, at the feeling of Oliver’s hand collaring him, Blake’s eyes became slightly glassy, his pupils expanding as Oliver watched.
“So, you’ll decide what happens to me?” Blake’s voice was a rumble Oliver felt in his hand, every word like hot static in his ears. The two sensations sent twin shudders through him.
“That’s generally what judges do,” Oliver said, leaving out that he could do no such thing. He would have to drop the case, of course. He just had to get around to doing it.
It was difficult to be bothered by such thoughts right now, when he was hot and straining inside his briefs, trying to decide how he wanted the boy in front of him. The more he looked at that damp red mouth, the more he was leaning toward fucking him there, where he’d be so sweet and hot. Oliver wanted to feel his cock in the throat he still held; see tears gather in the corners of those beautiful, black-lashed brown eyes.
Blake put his hands on Oliver’s thighs, so lightly that Oliver barely felt him through the fabric. Then, bolder, he stroked upwards and moaned when his palm glided over Oliver’s trapped cock.
Oliver tightened his hand, and Blake froze.
“I’m not going to be the one who decides what happens to you.”
Blake frowned, like the statement wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.
“It’s important you know that,” Oliver explained, forcing out the words through the haze of his own eager lust. “You don’t have to do anything here that you don’t want to do.”
A smile ghosted over Blake’s mouth. His eyes still looked like they’d suffered a bit of recent strain, but he looked much more well than he had in the courtroom.
“I want to,” he murmured, the words strained by the pressure of Oliver’s hand, and then he leaned forward and pressed his open mouth against Oliver’s fly.
Oliver’s head fell back with a sigh. He let go of Blake’s neck and took a handful of his hair. “Good boy,” he moaned as Blake breathed hot and wet against him, laving the fabric of his trousers with his tongue.
Oliver helped him, hooking his thumb in the corner of Blake’s mouth to tug him aside. The second his thumb touched Blake’s tongue, he was treated to a moment of hot, sucking pressure that made him moan again, appreciatively. He tugged firmly on Blake’s hair and then let it go, letting him suck his finger while he opened his own button and tugged down his zipper, the relatively cool air of the room another stimulant on his aching cock, still confined by a layer of silk and spandex.
“Would you like me to put on a condom?”
Blake paused in his attentions to look up, his eyes dark slits. “Should I?” His voice was slurred around Oliver’s finger.
“It’s up to you,” Oliver said, sliding a hand inside his briefs to grasp himself, giving his cock a shard of relief. “I had tests run last Tuesday.” Every other Tuesday, like clockwork, which was necessary to satisfy Oliver’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies. And Lyle had preferred condoms even for oral.
“I don’t want you to put one on,” Blake decided, and he set his teeth gently against the pad of Oliver’s thumb, the softest of bites.
Oliver relished the view as he pulled his cock out and stroked himself, the swollen, crimson head and pink shaft appearing inch by inch through the circle of his fist, with Blake’s worshipful mouth so ready and near.
“You pretty little thing,” he told Blake, and when Blake tore his eyes from Oliver’s cock to look up at him again, his mouth slack, Oliver used the thumb that still rested inside of his mouth to push his jaw open while, with his other hand, he thrust his cock over Blake’s waiting tongue.
Blake instantly leaned in and sucked him down, holding eye contact, and Oliver felt a wave of desire so strong that he thought he could come like that, like a teenager feeling a mouth for the first time, finishing in seconds.
Gritting his teeth, he wound his hand into Blake’s messy bun, and when Blake moaned encouragingly, pulled it taut. Blake’s moans vibrated around him even as he relentlessly sucked and swallowed in strong, slow pulses. Setting the same rhythm, Oliver thrust shallowly while still holding Blake’s head tight by his heavy, satin hair.
Usually, he warned a new partner when he was about to come. Some people didn’t appreciate being surprised.
But today, he didn’t warn Blake, because he didn’t have a chance. His orgasm tore through him without warning, the entire experience so intense that he wasn’t even sure when he began to come. A crescendo within a crescendo. Blake’s mouth kept milking him, past the moment where it was too much, but Oliver gloried briefly in the pain of oversensitivity before he pulled back, dropped to his own knees, and pushed Blake onto the floor.
Blake caught himself on his elbows as Oliver’s mouth descended on his. So hot, so swollen, tasting of Oliver’s cum. Oliver could have drowned there, but instead, he broke free and sat back on his heels so he could jerk Blake’s jeans down his hips.
“What have we here?” he murmured. He didn’t have to feign appreciation. Blake’s cock was predictably gorgeous, and unpredictably huge. It was thick, slightly tapered at the head, and considerably longer and girthier than Oliver’s. Oliver slipped his hand down the hot shaft, eliciting a shaky breath from Blake, who was still up on his elbows and staring down his body, his eyes wide and his lip in his teeth.
His balls were heavy and soft, barely dusted in fine black hair—the first sign of it anywhere on the soft white skin below his neck. His shaft was pale, but the foreskin stretched over his leaking tip was a ripe purple. Mouth literally watering, Oliver used his lips to push it back and then probed the slit with the tip of his tongue.
“So close,” Blake bit out.
Oliver pulled back and smiled, kissing him near the base, nuzzling his balls, the hair there delightfully soft like that of a peach. “I see that,” he murmured. “You got so hard from sucking me off, didn’t you? You must have enjoyed it very much.”
Blake made a pained noise of agreement. “Yeah—fuck. Will you—please—?”
“Of course, pretty boy,” Oliver said soothingly, and took as much of the big, thick cock in his mouth as he could. His own enthusiasm surprised him. It had been a long time since he’d found much joy in being on this end of a blowjob. But Blake’s taste and the effort and focus it took to accommodate his size, and the incredulous whimpers that escaped him, as though he couldn’t believe this was happening—
Well, Oliver enjoyed himself very much.
Blake had been close, so it wasn’t more than a minute’s work to have him coming with a cry, his thighs shaking under Oliver’s hands. Oliver slowly lifted himself up when Blake was spent and shuddering, looking appreciatively from his sprawled, clothed legs to the patch of flat, white stomach visible beneath his rucked-up shirt, and the pleasant curves of his biceps. Blake’s hands were buried in his hair and his perfect mouth was grinning, even white teeth on display and the tip of his tongue caught between them. His eyes were closed, but his lashes shone with drying tears.
A horrible tide of naked longing rose up in Oliver, which had no place in his heart at all, let alone for someone who’d just made him come, then come and cried for him in return. What was left to want?
Baffled at himself, Oliver blinked as a frightening realization dawned:
He’d been wrong. Emile wasn’t the last person to have made him feel this way.
No one ever had.