I steady my hand on his head and thrust a little while Perry sucks and licks and fucking moans like his entire life is dependent on sucking dick the best that he can. And if it was, he’d survive.

Not me though.

Because he’s driving me out of my goddamn mind.

My head drops back toward the ceiling because I can’t look at him anymore. Can’t see his determination, can’t see how much he’s enjoying it. Everything from my balls to the head of my cock is overstimulated. I’m flushed, overheating in this cool room, wanting this to go on forever, but even as I have that thought, I flip from horny to there.

My dick swells with the pressure of my orgasm, and I barely manage to get out a warning of “I’m gonna come” before I do. Perry’s struggling to keep my dick in his mouth as he coughs and swallows and tries to drink my cum like I did with him.

I know I shouldn’t look, but I do.

His thick eyelashes are wet clumps, cheeks darker than usual, lips red and puffy with my cum dribbling out the corner of his mouth.

The high eases out of me, and Perry lets my dick go. We stare at each other, him kneeling, looking up, eyes bright and lips parted as he struggles to breathe.

“Did I do okay?”

My thumb finds the mess at the edge of his mouth, and I clean it off his skin. “Unfortunately, you did better than okay. How the hell do I ever recover from that?”

Pride lights up his face, and I’m hit with the feeling again.

How the fuck do I recover from Perry?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

PERRY

Ideally, I would have spent the night wrapped in St. Clare’s arms and marveling that I sucked an actual dick tonight. Instead, Lars wakes me up way too soon, jeans held out toward me with his eyes pointed at the ceiling, and announces that it’s my turn to take watch.

A yawn tears apart my face, and my shoulder feels like it’s been torn off and reattached badly. “Do we have any painkillers?” I grumble, throwing my legs off the tiny bed and trying to get them into the jeans. I’m half-asleep and in a lot of pain, and nothing feels like it’s supposed to.

“Yeah, on the kitchen counter. Your friends left us some stuff to keep it clean too.”

My muscles rebel, and I push up onto my feet. “Thanks.”

He hesitates. “Need help?”

As much as I want to curl into a ball and tell him I’m ouchy, I send a smile his way instead. “Aww, Lars. Are you starting to care about me?”

“Never.”

“You are.”

St. Clare groans and rolls onto his side, blankets tangled around his legs, showing off his bare ass.