Read Online Rite of Summer: Treading the Boards, Book 1 by Tess Bowery - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tess Bowery
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and it shifted against the hard and glistening head of his prick, and he understood . He had released harder and more violently than ever before in his life, into his own hand, with Charlie watching and applauding his display.
It was like that even now, that brilliant rush of pleasure-ache and fullness, the wound long since healed and Charlie’s bones, crew and ship all resting at the bottom of the indifferent sea.
Two years since the storm took his ship down. Two years since Joshua had removed himself back to Horlock’s estate, there to paint portraits of large ladies with small dogs and retire at night to a cold and empty bed.
Now, though, he could close his eyes and see Ashbrook’s face, his lips, his hands. Two years was longer than any widow ever mourned a husband—he could have this without guilt. He could allow himself, just once, to indulge.
Joshua stroked himself again, ran his hand along the silk-soft skin of his prick, aching with the doubled need of unspent lust. A gentle tug at the ring sent coils of heat down through his groin, building and pooling at the base of his spine.
Yes, this he could have—the image of Ashbrook’s mouth, red, red lips that parted, plush and inviting, when he drew breath to speak. He would paint those lips with his fluids, rub his prick across them and press just the tip inside. Ashbrook’s tongue would curl around the ring, tug on it, suck at the place where the gold joined his body. His hands would clench around Joshua’s buttocks, urging him closer, pulling him in so that he could thrust deeper, slide heavily across Ashbrook’s waiting tongue.
His fingers would—
Joshua slipped two fingers into his mouth, his other hand still circling his cock. He sucked on them, laved them with his tongue, imagined for a moment that it was Ashbrook’s prick there, stretching his mouth open and leaving trails of salt-sweet across his lips and tongue.
His fingers wet, he let them slip from his mouth and trailed them down his body. They left streaks of damp on his skin, raising gooseflesh as he went.
He crooked his knee up, gripped tightly at the head of his cock and twisted his hand up to run his palm across the head. His other hand slipped between his legs, and he pressed the pad of one finger against his arse, traced circles of cold fire along the sensitive skin.
Fuck me.
It would have been easier with oil, but for one finger alone his body opened, slick with spit to ease the way.
Joshua shuddered and gasped aloud into the silent room, waited for a moment for the stretch and burn to fade into need. He rocked down into it, crooked his finger to find that ephemeral something more . It was not his own hand that fucked into him, opening him up and filling him, but those long and slender fingers that danced across a violin’s strings with such deceptive ease.
There—that made his prick jump against his stomach, a trail of precome leaving wet marks against the linen of his shirt. An impatient shove sent it up to expose the pale expanse of his stomach and the fine red-blond hair that trailed down to the nest of curls at the base. He fucked up into his own grip, rocked down onto his fingers and imagined Ashbrook’s fierce mouth. He could almost feel the nibbles at his hip, the way Ashbrook would suck Joshua’s balls into his mouth one at a time. He would take Joshua’s prick deep, so deep, into that perfect throat and swallow around him, his fingers twisting up firmly into Joshua’s body until he was nothing but a shaking mess of need.
Desire pooled deep inside him, and his balls drew up tight, tight against his body. Lightning flared behind his eyes, a white-sharp jolt that flashed out through his arms and legs, leaving his fingers tingling and his toes curled so tightly that they cramped. He bowed up off the bed, his emissions spurting wet and sticky across his stomach and his chest, coating his fingers with the evidence of his lust.
Later, his skin cool where he had washed
It was like that even now, that brilliant rush of pleasure-ache and fullness, the wound long since healed and Charlie’s bones, crew and ship all resting at the bottom of the indifferent sea.
Two years since the storm took his ship down. Two years since Joshua had removed himself back to Horlock’s estate, there to paint portraits of large ladies with small dogs and retire at night to a cold and empty bed.
Now, though, he could close his eyes and see Ashbrook’s face, his lips, his hands. Two years was longer than any widow ever mourned a husband—he could have this without guilt. He could allow himself, just once, to indulge.
Joshua stroked himself again, ran his hand along the silk-soft skin of his prick, aching with the doubled need of unspent lust. A gentle tug at the ring sent coils of heat down through his groin, building and pooling at the base of his spine.
Yes, this he could have—the image of Ashbrook’s mouth, red, red lips that parted, plush and inviting, when he drew breath to speak. He would paint those lips with his fluids, rub his prick across them and press just the tip inside. Ashbrook’s tongue would curl around the ring, tug on it, suck at the place where the gold joined his body. His hands would clench around Joshua’s buttocks, urging him closer, pulling him in so that he could thrust deeper, slide heavily across Ashbrook’s waiting tongue.
His fingers would—
Joshua slipped two fingers into his mouth, his other hand still circling his cock. He sucked on them, laved them with his tongue, imagined for a moment that it was Ashbrook’s prick there, stretching his mouth open and leaving trails of salt-sweet across his lips and tongue.
His fingers wet, he let them slip from his mouth and trailed them down his body. They left streaks of damp on his skin, raising gooseflesh as he went.
He crooked his knee up, gripped tightly at the head of his cock and twisted his hand up to run his palm across the head. His other hand slipped between his legs, and he pressed the pad of one finger against his arse, traced circles of cold fire along the sensitive skin.
Fuck me.
It would have been easier with oil, but for one finger alone his body opened, slick with spit to ease the way.
Joshua shuddered and gasped aloud into the silent room, waited for a moment for the stretch and burn to fade into need. He rocked down into it, crooked his finger to find that ephemeral something more . It was not his own hand that fucked into him, opening him up and filling him, but those long and slender fingers that danced across a violin’s strings with such deceptive ease.
There—that made his prick jump against his stomach, a trail of precome leaving wet marks against the linen of his shirt. An impatient shove sent it up to expose the pale expanse of his stomach and the fine red-blond hair that trailed down to the nest of curls at the base. He fucked up into his own grip, rocked down onto his fingers and imagined Ashbrook’s fierce mouth. He could almost feel the nibbles at his hip, the way Ashbrook would suck Joshua’s balls into his mouth one at a time. He would take Joshua’s prick deep, so deep, into that perfect throat and swallow around him, his fingers twisting up firmly into Joshua’s body until he was nothing but a shaking mess of need.
Desire pooled deep inside him, and his balls drew up tight, tight against his body. Lightning flared behind his eyes, a white-sharp jolt that flashed out through his arms and legs, leaving his fingers tingling and his toes curled so tightly that they cramped. He bowed up off the bed, his emissions spurting wet and sticky across his stomach and his chest, coating his fingers with the evidence of his lust.
Later, his skin cool where he had washed