Chapter 7
“Take it out,” Jake instructed, barely a whisper. Ethan could hardly hear over his own heartbeat, pounding like thunder. “Take it out and show me what you like. Slow. No spilling it all until I say so, understand?”
That hand remained in his hair, chilly and firm but kind, so kind, keeping him supported. That touch was tangible. Jake’s voice was tangible. Ethan fumbled open jeans and boxer-briefs, drew himself out, felt rigid want and slick need already hot against his hand. Every touch billowed and expanded, magnified a thousandfold, as he knelt at the feet of his ghost and surrendered to each word of control.
He kept motions slow, as ordered. He teased himself with agonizing deliberation. He quivered and yearned and ached for more, breathless and dazed. His hand, his shaft, every gathering pearl at the tip. Drips that spilled onto crushed flowers. A distant scent of sweetness, and that pulse-beat under his skin.
Jake said, “Faster.”