“Fuck, you love this, don’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question, one I already know the answer to. I’ve known just how much since that first summer, perhaps even that first night, even though at the time I was too awed to notice. Oliver looks so content with my cock in his mouth, and I would bet money that there’s a wet spot at the front of his own slacks.

He bobs his head and I reward him with my fingers in his hair and on his face, trailing reverently across his skin while murmuring praise in low Italian. My cock nudges the back of his throat and I tighten my fingers in his hair before he can pull away, cupping the back of his head and holding him there as I press deeper, groaning and hissing as my cock sinks into the tight grip of his throat. He looks up at me, eyes shining in the low light, and I shudder as pleasure blooms outward from that point of contact, threatening to undo me if we don’t stop.

“Such a good boy,” I tell him, lingering there for another long moment before letting him go so he can pull back and take a breath. My hand curls under his chin and I thumb at the wet, swollen corner of his mouth, wiping saliva from his skin. “Stand up. I wanna see how hard you are.”