Chapter 3: Breakfast of Champions
The thick, dreamless sleep clung to Mike like wet wool. He surfaced slowly, awareness returning in fragments: the soft Egyptian cotton sheets, the ache in his ass an immediate pleasant reminder of his recent activities. And then, her. Perched on the side of the bed, wrapped in a towel, home from work.
Her hand slid across his stomach, fingers tracing the coarse hair leading down. A low hum vibrated in her throat. Sleepy, yet deliberate. Her palm cupped the thickening weight of his cock through his pyjama bottoms. "Mmm… Mikey," she murmured, nuzzling his shoulder. "Morning." Her thumb rubbed the burgeoning head through the fabric.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the sleep haze. Last night. Sofia’s taste, Trent’s tongue, his own hands-free explosion onto the bed linen. The gnawing emptiness replaced by a sated heaviness. He was suddenly terrified that his body, his mind, would betray him. But the deep, humming satisfaction, the raw nerve-endings Trent had awakened, seemed to have fuelled him. He focused, channelling the desperate hunger he’d felt under Trent’s lips into Maria’s welcoming mouth. Would it work? Could he even get hard?
He felt himself stir further under her touch, an undeniable response. Relief warred with guilt. "Morning, love," he managed, his voice gravelly. He turned onto his side, facing her. Her eyes, heavy-lidded with a need for sleep, held a warm, familiar desire. She leaned in, kissing him softly, her tongue seeking his. He kissed back, tasting toothpaste.
Her hand dipped inside his waistband, fingers curling around his cock. It was fully hard now, pulsing in her grip. "You woke up so ready," she whispered against his lips, a hint of surprise and pleasure in her voice. She shifted, pushing her towel away, then removing the sheets covering him. Her thigh hooked over his hip, guiding him. She was already slick, the head of his cock bumping against her wet entrance.
He pushed in slowly, the familiar, welcoming heat enveloping him. Good. Solid. But the frantic energy from last night, the need to consume and be consumed, was muted. He moved, steady thrusts, kissing her neck, her shoulder, the rhythm comfortable, predictable. Maria moaned, arching into him, but it was… familiar. Pleasant. Not the edge-of-oblivion intensity he now craved. He thought of Trent’s fingers twisting his nipples, the electric jolt that shot straight to his core.
Experimentally, hesitantly, he slid his hand between their bodies. Not to her clit, not yet. His thumb and forefinger found the thick nub of her right nipple. He pinched. Gently at first.
Maria gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Her pussy clenched around his cock. "Oh! Mike! What…?" Not pain. Surprise. Intrigue.
Emboldened, remembering the shocking feedback loop of pleasure-pain Trent had exploited, Mike pinched harder. Twisted slightly. Maria cried out, her hips bucking wildly against his next thrust. "Fuck! Yes! Like that! Do it!" Her eyes flew open, wide and dark with sudden, raw need. "Pinch them, Mikey! Harder!"
He obeyed, pinching and rolling both nipples now through the fabric, the sensation echoing strangely in his own sensitized flesh. The change in her was immediate, volcanic. Her back arched off the bed, her moans turning guttural, desperate. Her internal muscles rippled and clenched around his cock in frantic pulses. He fucked her harder, deeper, spurred by her transformation, the familiar act suddenly charged with stolen electricity. The friction built, hot and urgent. He felt her tightening, coiling.
"Now… tongue… Mike, please…" she panted, writhing. "My clit… use your tongue… now!"
He pulled out, the sudden emptiness making them both groan. He shoved her onto the mattress, burying his face between her thighs. No tentative licks. He went straight for it, mimicking the relentless focus Trent had shown him and he had shown Sofia. He flattened his tongue against her puffy, engorged clit, then flicked rapidly, the wiry hair of his moustache scraping her sensitive skin. At the same time, he pushed two thick fingers deep inside her, curling upwards, finding that spot, rubbing hard. Then it hit him. Sofia's ass. He slicked another finger and began rubbing it around Maria's hole. Her groans deepened, this new sexual abandon a mirror to his own recent experiences with Trent. He spat on her hole and pushed a finger in, spearing both holes and returning to her clit with his mouth.
"YES! FUCK! RIGHT THERE! OHGODYESTHERE!" Maria screamed, her hands fisting in his hair, holding him ruthlessly against her. Her thighs clamped around his ears. He felt her swell, tighten impossibly, then explode. Hot liquid gushed over his fingers and chin, soaking the sheets beneath her ass – not just squirt, but a flood of creamy cum. Her body convulsed, back arched like a bow, a raw, shrieking cry tearing from her throat that dissolved into breathless, shuddering gasps. She collapsed, trembling, eyes glazed.
He didn't stop. He lapped at her, cleaning the mess, sucking her still-throbbing clit gently now. The taste of her release, musky and sweet, flooded his mouth. An echo of Sofia, but different. Maria. His wife. The guilt surged back, thick and choking. He pushed it down, focusing on the physical, the wet heat on his tongue, the tremors still running through her. Maybe this phase would be an experience to be left behind, enlightened but not changed?
He lifted his head, wiping his chin. Her eyes fluttered open, a dazed, sated smile on her face. "Mike… that was… incredible. You…" She trailed off, her eyes already drifting shut. "Never felt… like that…" She was asleep in seconds, a profound, boneless sleep he hadn’t seen in years.
Mike pulled the covers over her. His own cock ached, hard and ignored, but he didn't care. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily, staring at his wet fingers. He brought them to his mouth, sucking Maria’s cum off them, the taste mingling with the lingering ghost of Sofia and his own shame. It was good. Really good.
He pulled on his sweatpants and padded downstairs, suddenly less self conscious about his aging body, the scent of coffee guiding him to the kitchen. The morning light streamed in, highlighting Trent leaning against the counter, shirtless, a steaming mug in his hand. He watched Mike enter, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his face.
Mike tried to avoid his gaze, heading for the coffee pot, his face flushing hot, grinning like a fool. He poured a cup, the silence thick and charged.
Trent laugh almost exploded out of him. He pushed off the counter, stepping close and giving Mike a bro hug. Mike could smell his soap, his skin, his hair. Trent held up his hand, palm out. Mike stared at it, confused for a second.
"High five, Stepdad," Trent said, the smirk widening into a grin. "Sounded like you murdered her up there. Made her sing real pretty."
Mortification burned through Mike, but this camaraderie was addictive. He hesitated, then, feeling ridiculous, he awkwardly raised his own hand and slapped it against Trent’s. The smack echoed in the quiet kitchen.
Trent laughed, a rich, easy sound. He dropped his hand, his eyes flicking down Mike’s body. "I'd kiss ya,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough murmur, “but…" He wrinkled his nose playfully, leaning in conspiratorially. "Maybe after you shower? Don't need to taste that."
Mike froze, his face flaming crimson. Trent just winked, the gesture obscene and strangely intimate. He turned, grabbing his gym bag from a chair. Mike stood rooted, clutching his coffee mug like a shield.
As Trent reached the kitchen door, he paused. Turned back. In two strides he was in front of Mike again. Before Mike could react, Trent’s hand shot out. Calloused fingers found Mike’s left nipple through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and pinched. Hard. A sharp, electric jolt of pain-pleasure arced straight to Mike’s cock, making him gasp.
"See ya later, Mike," Trent murmured, his dark eyes holding Mike's, filled with promise. "7:30. Don’t forget." He released the pinch, gave Mike’s chest a rough pat, and disappeared through the door.
Mike stood in the suddenly too-bright, too-quiet kitchen, the phantom grip on his nipple still burning, his cock throbbing against his sweatpants, precum oozing onto his thigh. The taste of Maria was still on his tongue, overshadowed by Trent’s words, his touch, his promise. He set the coffee mug down. He needed that shower. And then… he needed to figure out how to survive until 7:30.
The scalding water pounded Mike’s shoulders, failing to wash away the phantom sensations: Trent’s pinch on his nipple, the rasp of his voice promising excitement to come, the shameful thrill coiling hot in Mike’s gut under Maria’s obliviously sleepy smile. He soaped himself roughly, the smell of her lingering on his skin a stark counterpoint to the craving roaring inside him. The steam couldn't fog the image of Trent’s smirk.
Dressing felt like armor, each layer a flimsy shield against the restless energy crackling under his skin. The office was a minefield of triggers – the elevator’s humming silence, the sterile quiet of the executive washroom stall. Standing at the urinal, the pressure built, a relentless tide threatening to breach the dam. His balls felt heavy, tight.
He unzipped slowly, fighting the urge. Just taking a piss, that’s all. But his dick, thick and stiffening against his palm, had other ideas. A bead of clear fluid welled at the slit, gleaming. He couldn't stop the groan escaping his lips. Fuck. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against the head, squeezing. Precum spurted onto his fingers, thick and salty. Without thought, he brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean, swallowing. The taste was electric, illicit. Weakness. Need. He zipped up, hands shaking slightly. Just get through the day.
The afternoon crawled. Another bathroom break, another stall. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal partition. The memory of Trent’s tongue swirling, sucking, feasting on his asshole slammed into him. His cock jumped, another thick dollop of precum leaking onto his boxers. He captured it with trembling fingers, but this time his hand was drawn behind him. He thumbed the clear, viscous liquid into his soft, waiting hole. He groaned. Too loud. He did his best to pull himself together and went to wash his hands.
At 7:22 PM, Mike stood rigid in the empty upstairs hallway wearing black sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, clean in every way possible, ears straining. Silence. Only the low thump of the washing machine downstairs. Had Trent forgotten? Dread twisted with the simmering arousal. Maybe it had been a cruel joke? Trent’s laughter echoing after the high-five. 7:25. Sweat pricked his hairline. 7:28. He flinched when he heard the basement door click open and Trent's voice calling him down.
Trent filled the doorway, silhouetted against the warmer light below. He wore a tight white tank top, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His expression was unreadable. "Ready, Mike?" His voice was low, casual, sending a jolt straight to Mike’s groin. "C'mon down."
The basement air was noticeably warmer, thick with the scent of dust, old electronics, and something herbal. Trent’s gaming den: plush sectional sofa, massive TV, posters of athletes Mike didn't recognize glowing faintly in the low light from a floor lamp. a private entrance so his friends could come and go more easily. Trent sank onto the sofa, patting the space beside him. Mike sat stiffly, the worn leather cool through his chinos.
Trent pulled out a tightly rolled joint and a lighter from the pocket of his shorts. He sparked it, took a deep drag, the tip glowing cherry-red. He held the smoke, then exhaled a smooth plume, the sweet, skunky smell curling into the warm air. He offered it to Mike. "Want a taste?"
Mike stared at the thin paper cylinder. Another new thing. His heart hammered. "Well," he managed, a nervous chuckle escaping. "Seems I'm trying a lot of new things lately." He took the joint tentatively, mimicking Trent’s grip. He inhaled cautiously, triggering a coughing fit that made his eyes water. Trent chuckled, a low rumble.
"Little slower, Stepdad," Trent advised, taking it back. "Exhale first, inhale and pull, breathe in, hold, slowly exhale." Mike tried again, Trent talking him through again, step by step, managing a much calmer experience. The smoke hit his lungs, harsh, then a strange warmth spread through his chest, loosening the knots in his shoulders. He exhaled shakily. Another drag. The sharp edges of his anxiety began to soften, blur. A third. The world felt… padded. Interesting.
"Fuck," Mike breathed, a giggle bubbling up unexpectedly. "That's… wobbly." He felt floaty, detached. The tension melted away, replaced by a giddy warmth. Trent grinned, taking another hit.
"So," Trent leaned back, blowing smoke towards the ceiling. "You fucked Maria into a coma this morning, huh? Sounded like she died happy." He passed the joint back.
Mike took it, the bluntness failing to shock him in his altered state. He giggled again. "Yeah, man. Used… used that thing. The nipple thing. You showed me." "Man, I didn't show you that," Trent chided. "I saw you doing it to yourself and copied you." "Holy shit, Trent. I thought you were the master" He dragged deeply, holding the smoke. "I am. A getting pussies wet. Always new things to learn, Mikey." They nodded. "She gushed." He continued abruptly. Trent choked briefly. "Like a fucking fountain. Never seen her do that before. I'd never seen it in real life until Sofia..." He exhaled, a dreamy smile spreading. "Tasted good too." He flushed slightly, the admission feeling natural, easy.
Trent’s eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Learning from the best," he smirked. "Sensitive fuckers, nipples. Especially on a guy who's built a certain way, so I hear. Mine don't do shit." He leaned closer, conspiratorial. "But pussy… man, a really wet, puffy one? Just fat and hot and shiny. Fuck! The best fucking snack. Gotta get it nice and swollen first. Lick it right."
Mike nodded emphatically, the joint forgotten between his fingers. "Yeah! Exactly! Like… like what you did… you know… last night." He gestured vaguely towards his own ass. "Swollen. Wet." He giggled drunkenly. "Felt fuckin' amazing. Like you were… eating an endless bowl of your favourite dessert." They both went silent, then burst out laughing, falling in to each other to catch their breaths.
The joint was down to a roach. Trent stubbed it out. "Speaking of dessert," he said, his voice dropping, losing its lazy cadence. The playful glint sharpened into something predatory. He stood up, walked over to a stack of plastic drawers tucked beside the TV stand. He pulled out two items, tossing one onto Mike’s lap. "Let's get comfortable. Put this on."
Mike looked down. A bright blue jockstrap. The pouch looked suspiciously small. Trent was already pulling his tank top over his head, revealing his sculpted abs and pecs. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts and boxers, shoving them down in one smooth motion. His cock, thick and heavy, already half-hard, swung free. He stepped into a red jockstrap, pulling the straps high and tight over his powerful ass cheeks. The black pouch strained to contain his burgeoning erection. "Well?" Trent prompted, watching him expectantly.
Mike’s stoned mind processed slowly. The warmth, the intimacy, the sudden, stark reality of Trent standing almost naked before him. Desire, amplified by the weed, surged. He stood, fumbling slightly with his t-shirt. He peeled off his sweatpants, the cool air prickling his skin. He stepped into the blue jockstrap, the elastic bands snug against his waist and thighs. The pouch felt tight, constricting over his own thickening hardness. He felt exposed, vulnerable. Ridiculous. Hot.
Trent appraised him, a slow, hungry smile spreading. "Good. Real good, Mike." He closed the distance, the warmth radiating off his bare skin palpable. Without preamble, he grabbed Mike’s shoulders and guided him firmly backwards onto the deep cushions of the sectional where a thick towel was spread out. "Legs up," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
Mike obeyed, lifting his legs, his knees bending towards his chest. Trent’s strong hands gripped his thighs, pushing them further back, spreading him wide. Mike gasped as his legs were hoisted high, tucked back almost behind his head, putting his asshole on blatant display, the thin blue strap of the jock digging into his cheek. The position was shockingly vulnerable. He stared at the ceiling, pulse thundering in his ears.
Trent dropped to his knees between Mike’s splayed legs. His breath was hot against Mike's exposed hole. "Gonna make this beautiful," Trent murmured, almost to himself. He leaned in, his broad shoulders blocking the light. Tonight, he teased. Quick, light laps of Trent's tongue, flicking over random areas of his soft, tender hole. Kisses. Mumblings. "Yeah. That's it. That's my puss. Mmm. Gonna treat you good little puss." Then, his tongue, wide and flat and impossibly hot, swiped a thick, wet stripe right up the centre of Mike’s crack, from perineum to tailbone.
Mike cried out, a ragged sound ripped from his throat. The sensation was immediate, obscene, the electric friction flooding his system with liquid heat. Trent didn’t delve inside. He latched onto the furled rim itself, his lips forming a tight seal. He sucked hard, pulling the sensitive ring of muscle outwards, making it swell, starting to puff it up like a ripe berry. Mike whimpered, his hips jerking involuntarily.
Trent released the suction with a wet pop, then immediately spat a thick glob of saliva directly onto the swollen, glistening pucker. He used the flat of his tongue to smear it around, coating the entire area. "Fuck, look at that," he groaned, his voice thick. "Makin’ it wet. Makin’ it puffy." He drew the engorged rim back into his mouth, sucking fiercely, his tongue flicking rapidly against the stretched, hypersensitive flesh. He pulled off again, gathering the mixed spit and Mike’s own slick on his tongue. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushed the gathered wetness into Mike’s hole with the firm tip of his tongue, just breaching the tight ring.
Mike shouted, back arching off the sofa. "Jesus! Fuck! Trent!" It was almost too much, almost too intense, the invasion minimal but the sensation magnified a hundredfold by the focus, the suction, the sheer filthy intent. Was Mike ready for that? Did it matter now that they were here? What did this mean for the rest of his life? Trent, oblivious, sucked the fluids back out, drawing the slick back into his mouth. He fed it back in. Sucked it out. A relentless, obscene cycle. In. Out. Each push of his tongue penetrated fractionally deeper, stretching, lubricating, the slurping sounds loud in the warm basement air. Mike babbled, incoherent pleas and curses tumbling out, lost in the primal rhythm Trent established on his asshole. Trent’s world narrowed to the wet, dark star he was transforming with his mouth, his sole purpose to make it open, make it gape, make it his.
The obscene wet sounds filled the basement air, Trent’s tongue a relentless engine driving Mike’s hole wider, wetter, impossibly sensitive. Mike’s knuckles were white where he gripped the leather sofa, every nerve ending screaming in delicious ecstasy, his cock a rigid, leaking column trapped in the blue jockstrap. "Fuck... oh god... Trent... like that..." he babbled, lost in the relentless sucking, the pushing, the pulling out. Trent’s lips formed a tight seal again, sucking the engorged rim hard, making it throb. He spat thickly, the warm fluid hitting Mike’s stretched pucker, then immediately slurped it back in, tongue-tip breaching the loosened muscle deeper this time. "Look at it," Trent growled, pulling off just long enough to speak, his breath hot on the glistening mess. "Swollen. Perfect. Wet." He dived back in, feasting.
Trent’s hands left Mike’s trembling thighs. Rough palms slid up Mike’s sweat-slicked torso, bypassing his hard nipples entirely. He palmed Mike’s hairy chest, fingers digging into the solid pecs, massaging the firm muscle beneath fur. "Push it out, Mike," Trent commanded, his voice muffled against Mike's ass but clear, a low, insistent drone. "Push it out." His thumbs pressed circles into the meat of Mike’s pecs, strong and demanding. "C'mon, man. Let it gape for me." The dual assault was overwhelming – the brutal intimacy on his asshole, the unexpected, deep pressure on his chest. Mike pushed, remembering the sensation of his ass cream, searching for similar understanding. He pushed and heard a puff of air. "Yeah, bitch, fuck." Trent's thick moan washed over him. That noise. He made it. "Relax now" Trent’s hands moved deliberately, kneading, working the thick muscle. Mike sighed, his hips lifting involuntarily off the couch, presenting his hole almost with a sense of pride. "Push it out," Trent repeated, a filthy mantra. That noise again, A light squelch. A release. Trent groaned long and deep as he reapplied his tongue to Mike's hole. Mike could feel Trent's tongue lapping deeper, not pushing, not penetrating, his pussy flesh puffing outwards to meet Trent's tongue. Mike felt that familiar warmth. "Fuck, Mike, cream in my mouth man. Fuuuccckkkkk!"
Trent intensified his rimming, flopping his tongue over and into the loosened hole now, fucking it shallowly with wet thrusts while his hands worked Mike’s tits. Need, raw and electric, coiled deep in Mike’s belly, pressure building low and dangerous.
Trent’s fingers finally migrated to where Mike wanted them. His thumbs found the thick, dark nubs of Mike’s nipples. He didn’t tease. He pinched, hard. Rolled them brutally between calloused thumb and forefinger. The sensation wasn't just pleasure; it was a jolting circuit completing, connecting chest to cock to ass. "Jesus FUCK!" Mike roared, his body bowing off the sofa. The pressure detonated. Thick ropes of cum shot from his untouched cock, splattering hot across his own heaving stomach and chest, the force of it almost painful. "Ah! Ah! FUCK! CUMMING!" His asshole clenched spasmodically around Trent’s probing tongue, but Trent held him open, sucking the convulsing rim as Mike emptied himself, gasping, shuddering, vision whiting out.
The world slowly swam back. Mike lay boneless, trembling, covered in his own spend, his hole throbbing. Trent eased his legs down gently, the rough handling gone, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. "Damn, Mike," he chuckled, low and easy. "Hands free. Again. Like a fuckin' champ." Mike immediately lurched forward and began to clean Trent's face. Leaned into it, sighing. "There's my good slut" he murmured. Slut? The word sent a shiver through Mike. This ritual cleaning made Mike feel more intimate, more connected. Balancing and grounding. Trent pulled Mike next to him on the couch, reached for the remote, clicking on the massive TV. A trippy and colourful YouTube video playing a gentle but insistent beat. Trent grabbed another joint from the drawer, lit it, took a long drag, and passed it to Mike. "Here. Breathe. You earned it." Mike took it numbly, the familiar herbal warmth spreading, deepening the profound disassociation, that floaty feeling where his body felt simultaneously numb and hyper-alive, every nerve singing.
The joint burned down. Trent stubbed it out. Silence stretched, filled only by the low drone of the video. Mike drifted, the comedown a soft blanket. Then Trent shifted. Without a word, he slid effortlessly back between Mike’s legs. Mike flinched, oversensitivity screaming, but Trent just shushed him softly. "Easy," he murmured. Then his head dipped again, tongue lapping softly, gently at Mike's swollen, tender hole. The touch sparked fresh, complex sensations – a deep ache, a lingering sensitivity, but underneath it, that undeniable, hungry pleasure reigniting. Mike groaned, sinking deeper into the cushions, surrendering. He hadn't known his body could feel this much, this deeply, this shattered and yet vibrantly alive. Trent’s tongue worked steadily, almost meditatively now, soothing and stimulating at once. The sharp ache faded, replaced by a low, building thrum. Mike’s cock, impossibly, began to stir again against the damp fabric of the jock.
Trent stopped. He rose fluidly to his feet, his own cock straining against the red jockstrap, rock-hard and slick at the tip. He gripped himself, a few rough strokes, his eyes locked on Mike’s wrecked hole. "Look at that," he breathed. "Beautiful." His fist pumped, faster now. With a low grunt, thick jets of cum erupted from his cock, landing hot and sticky across Mike’s exposed asshole and butt cheeks, pearly streaks against flushed skin. Trent kept stroking, milking the last drops onto the mess. Before Mike could react, Trent was back on his knees, his tongue sweeping through the warm cum, lapping it up, mixing it with Mike’s own slick and feeding it back into the sensitive pucker. Mike cried out, the sensation filthy and overwhelming, his spent cock twitching pathetically. "Your tits," Trent ordered, his voice thick. "Play with 'em. Hard." Trembling, Mike obeyed, his own fingers finding his nipples, pinching, twisting the way Trent had. Pain-pleasure lanced through him. Trent slicked his hand with a mixture of fluids and pushed the blue jockstrap aside, wrapped his lubed fingers around Mike’s hardening cock, stroking firmly, matching the rhythm of his tongue plunging into Mike’s cum-slicked hole. "That's it," Trent growled. "Fuckin’ take it." It was too much, too soon, but the dual assault was relentless. Mike arched, gasped, and came again in Trent's fist, a weaker pulse this time, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
Exhaustion hit Mike like a sledgehammer. He barely registered Trent cleaning them both gently with a soft towel. Trent hauled him up the sofa cushions, pulling Mike’s spent body against his own warmth. He grabbed a fuzzy blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over them both. The kaleidoscopic video droned on. Mike’s head found the crook of Trent’s shoulder, the scent of sweat, sex, and weed filling his nostrils. Disassociation and bone-deep, sated aliveness warred within him. He was asleep before Trent’s breathing evened out.
A harsh, electronic blare shattered the thick, sex-scented silence. Trent fumbled for his phone on the floor, silencing the 2 AM alarm. Mike jolted awake, disoriented, sticky, the events of the night crashing back. His ass throbbed dully. "Fuck," Trent mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He nudged Mike. "C'mon. Bed. Gotta be up in a few hours." They stumbled together up the dark basement stairs, leaning on each other, a tangle of exhaustion and shared depravity. Outside Mike’s bedroom door, Trent paused, his eyes glinting in the dim hallway light. "Can you handle more tomorrow?" he asked, his voice low, a challenge laced with promise, but showing genuine concern.
Mike met his gaze, the ache in his hole, the memory of hands-free oblivion, the disassociated bliss warring with the raw need Trent had ignited. A shaky, almost giddy smile touched his lips. "Do I have to wait that long?" he rasped, the joke covering the desperate truth.
Trent’s smirk was pure satisfaction. "Here. 7:30."