Love And The Real Boy - Coming About, Book 2 by J.K. Hogan Read Free Book Online Page A

to knead his pecs. Just the barest graze across his nipples sent a stab of electricity straight to his balls. It was his kryptonite, nipple-play was. It made him a weak, gooey mess of lust. He could—and did, when the mood struck him—come from just stimulating his nipples. He’d never shared that with a sexual partner; he’d always been embarrassed about his sensitivity, and men’s-room hookups weren’t exactly the venue for exploring one’s kinks. He could only imagine Patrick laughing at him, coming all over himself after a few tweaks. Maybe Patrick would be one of the many men who didn’t bother much with foreplay—especially during a one-off.
    Those wicked fingers grazed again, probably accidentally. Rich bit back a groan but was unable to stop the reflexive roll of his hips. Patrick stilled his movements. Uh-oh , Rich thought.
    That lust-roughened voice grated next to his ear. “Off with this,” Patrick commanded, tugging at Rich’s T-shirt from underneath.
    Rich’s body complied before his mind even caught up, shucking the shirt without a thought. Patrick continued his lazy exploration of his upper body, half massaging, half stroking. He mapped Rich’s ridged abdomen with his fingers, grunting his appreciation.
    “You obviously take great care of your body, mate. Why do you not take such care with the rest of you?”
    Rich knew what he meant; all that was wrong with him couldn’t be fixed with just a healthy diet and daily trips to the gym. He shrugged and sighed. He didn’t want to talk; he only wanted to feel.
    Those big hands trailed back up to his chest, calluses dragging against sensitized skin, and suddenly the moment he’d feared was upon him. Patrick’s palms swiped across his hypersensitive nipples, then returned, fingers questing. He found those tightened buds as if there’d been a beacon calling to him. He gently rolled them between his fingers, and Rich’s body broke out in goose-bumps. His teeth sank down into his lower lip—he might have tasted blood—and he failed to stifle a whimper. A fucking whimper! His erection pulsed, straining toward its tormentor, and Rich could feel the moisture seeping from the head.
    “Is that so?” Patrick murmured in Rich’s ear, sounding a little breathless himself, then traced the shell of that ear with his tongue. That earned him a fresh shudder. “Lusty little thing, are ya not? Where’ve you been hiding it?”
    Without preamble, callused thumbs rubbed circles over his nipples, and Rich’s hips shot off the couch, his back bowing so far, he wondered that it didn’t break. He released a long moan, unable to hold it in—it was as if there was an invisible tether from his nipples to his cock, each pluck feeling like a stroke. His aching dick swelled, finally breaking out of its cotton prison, finding the open fly of his pants.
    “Lovely,” Patrick breathed. “So bloody sensitive. I bet I could make you come like this, without a hand on your pretty cock. Do you think?”
    Rich’s breath hitched, and he panted harder. He knows…he can tell. Patrick leaned over him, pulled down the waistband of his stretchy pants to reveal his dripping cock, and tucked the material beneath his balls. Rich’s dick was hard enough to pound nails, throbbing with his heartbeat, and standing out proud over the pillow of his sac.
    Patrick gave it a squeeze, then a leisurely stroke before returning his attention to Rich’s aching nipples. He took each sensitive tip into the circle of his thumb and index finger, and pinched. Rich’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his mind floated in an erotic haze. It was too much, too bright. He thought he might burn up.
    Sweat prickled over his skin as Patrick began sucking his neck in earnest, punctuating each pull with teeth and tongue. He kept steady pressure on Rich’s nipples, alternating between grazing, rolling, pinching, and pulling, until Rich was humping the air and writhing.
    “You’re about to lose it, aren’t