Your belt comes undone with a sharp tug, the leather hissing through the loops. Aaron doesn’t bother with buttons; he rips your shirt open, sends them pinging across the floor. His hands are on you before the fabric hits the ground, palms hot and calloused, mapping the plane of your chest like he’s memorizing the terrain. “Fuck,” he breathes, thumbs brushing over your nipples. They’re already hard, tight little points, and he pinches one between his fingers, just shy of pain. “Look at you. Pink as hell.” His voice is rough, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite get over his luck. “Bet they’re sensitive. Bet you whine when I bite ‘em.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just leans in, his beard scratching your skin as he takes one into his mouth, his tongue flicking the piercing there—just a thin silver bar, but enough to make you gasp. He hums around it, the vibration traveling straight to your cock. “Yeah. Just like that.”
His hands slide down, fingers splaying over your ribs, counting them like rosary beads. “Skinny bastard,” he murmurs, but there’s no insult in it. Just awe. His palms find your hips, grip hard enough to bruise, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of your jeans. “But you got weight here.” He squeezes, his fingers digging in, and you can feel the heat of his breath through the denim. “Gonna leave marks.” The promise hangs between you, thick as the air.
He pops the button of your jeans, yanks the zipper down. The sound is loud, obscene. He doesn’t push them off yet. Just slides his hands inside, cupping you through your underwear, his fingers tracing the shape of your cock, the weight of your balls. “Heavy,” he groans. “Fuckin’ heavy.” His fingers hook into the waistband, tugs it down, and your cock springs free, already leaking, the head dark and slick. Aaron makes a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a whimper. “Thick as my wrist,” he lies, but his voice is full of want, his own cock twitching against his thigh. He wraps his hand around you, strokes once, twice, his grip just shy of too tight. “Veins like ropes.” His thumb smudges the precum beading at the tip, brings it to his mouth. His tongue darts out, tasting you, and his eyes roll back just a little. “Salt and sin,” he mutters. “Best kind.”
He strips you the rest of the way, your jeans and underwear hitting the floor in a heap. You’re naked now, exposed, and his hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing the flesh, his fingers tracing the dip of your spine. “Hair here,” he notes, his voice dropping to a growl as his fingers comb through the dark curls at the base of your cock, the trail leading down. “Not too much. Just enough.” His touch is possessive, his fingers tangling in it, tugging just enough to make you hiss. “Gonna be a mess when I’m done with you.”
His hands slide down, fingers splaying over your ribs, counting them like rosary beads. “Skinny bastard,” he murmurs, but there’s no insult in it. Just awe. His palms find your hips, grip hard enough to bruise, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above the waistband of your jeans. “But you got weight here.” He squeezes, his fingers digging in, and you can feel the heat of his breath through the denim. “Gonna leave marks.” The promise hangs between you, thick as the air.
He pops the button of your jeans, yanks the zipper down. The sound is loud, obscene. He doesn’t push them off yet. Just slides his hands inside, cupping you through your underwear, his fingers tracing the shape of your cock, the weight of your balls. “Heavy,” he groans. “Fuckin’ heavy.” His fingers hook into the waistband, tugs it down, and your cock springs free, already leaking, the head dark and slick. Aaron makes a sound low in his throat, something between a growl and a whimper. “Thick as my wrist,” he lies, but his voice is full of want, his own cock twitching against his thigh. He wraps his hand around you, strokes once, twice, his grip just shy of too tight. “Veins like ropes.” His thumb smudges the precum beading at the tip, brings it to his mouth. His tongue darts out, tasting you, and his eyes roll back just a little. “Salt and sin,” he mutters. “Best kind.”
He strips you the rest of the way, your jeans and underwear hitting the floor in a heap. You’re naked now, exposed, and his hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing the flesh, his fingers tracing the dip of your spine. “Hair here,” he notes, his voice dropping to a growl as his fingers comb through the dark curls at the base of your cock, the trail leading down. “Not too much. Just enough.” His touch is possessive, his fingers tangling in it, tugging just enough to make you hiss. “Gonna be a mess when I’m done with you.”