For Keeps. For Always. by HALEY JENNER (top rated books of all time txt) 📗

Hand wrapped tightly around his shaft, he uses his stiff length to push down his boxers, dragging his head against my agape lips.

“Good girl,” he growls as I flick the tip of my tongue out to collect the bead of cum at his crown.

I circle my lips over his tip, sucking gently.

He moans.

Wrapping a hand at his base, he covers mine with his own, squeezing our hands roughly on the velvety skin.

He groans in approval. “Like that, baby. Squeeze me.”

Tongue to the roof of my mouth, I swallow, letting my spit coat his tip before sliding my lips over his cock, taking him into my mouth.

Up.

Down.

Tensing the length of my tongue, I hold the crown of his cock against the roof of my mouth, the soft suction of my mouth working as I pull lightly at his length.

A thick grunt escapes his lips. “A-h-fuck.”

Free hand cupping the heavy fall of his sack, I massage his balls in the palm of my hand. Knuckles white with his grip on the vanity, his nostrils flare in pleasure, and I hum in gratification. Turning Brooks Riley into a mass of heavy breathing and tensed muscles as I tease him to orgasm might very well be my favorite pastime.

I pull gently on his balls.

Feet arched, he pushes onto the tips of his toes, forcing his cock farther into my mouth. My eyes water at the intrusion, and a carnal look of lust flares in his eyes. I meet his stare, begging him with the tears on my temples.

He thrusts forward again.

A small gag sounds in my throat, and I swallow.

“Fuck, Henley. ’Bout to paint your lips with my cum, baby.”

His words are barely audible, back strained in pleasure.

I pull gently on his balls one last time. He bends in, abs contracting heavily as he milks his cock over my lips, in my mouth, and down my chin.

Hand twisted in my hair atop of my head, Brooks yanks me backward. “Ever told you I love you?”

Pulling the palm of my hand against my lips, I smile.

(almost five months later)

The air smells different in the country. Fresher, of course. Possibly the scent of manure and a slurry pit if you're unlucky. But there's something else. A promise of more. The scent of dew on still wet grass, the remnants of an open-air fire burning clumps of the earth. A clean start. Maybe a new beginning.

The romantic notions in my head have obviously been exaggerated by the excitement I feel at seeing Brooks again. Five months is a long time. Previously, our separations have been clouded with regret and a longing we've both forced ourselves to ignore. This time, our longing was discussed in depth. It was whispered over lengthy conversations saturated in lust and the sounds of self-pleasure. It was embraced and openly encouraged to help us cope with the distance. Being apart didn’t feel as arduous as the times before. Maybe the presence of Brooks heavy in my heart helped. There was a comfort in knowing time was now just a small hurdle, and we’d be together again as soon as we could manage it.

I arrived in Ireland three days ago, making my way to Dingle after spending my first night in Dublin. I couldn't let the opportunity pass to explore the Temple Bar District and let the infamousy of Ireland's hospitality welcome me to my latest pit stop.

I moved from bar to bar, tasting the flair of creativity on each bartender’s signature cocktail.

I listened heavily to the Irish brogue, struggling to keep up with more than my fair share of conversations when the accent was kilted with drink and an additional slur or two.

I was more confident than I’d ever been. More willing to engage strangers in tales of my life if only to encourage them to tell me more of theirs.

It was happiness. I’m certain of it. A giddiness in my person that made me more approachable than my regular morosity.

I was excited. I was animated and merry. The days until I could wrap my arms around Brooks were dwindling with every passing moment.

For the first four months of our separated dalliance, we spoke daily. Conversed via text message more. It was familial. It was a comfort I could never have imagined would fulfill me as significantly as it did. As it has.

When I finish a long shift, a message on my phone has now become the equivalent of a warm embrace on arriving home. It may sound pitiful to someone who lives with the actuality of that warm embrace, but for me, for Brooks, for us, it was an intimacy we hadn’t yet shared. It was a step toward a future I was trying my hardest to remain optimistic about. Brooks and I were used to being alone. We spent our days lost in a world that happily swallowed up our gypsy souls, yet the relief his words could bring offered my searching soul more.

For now anyway.

The last four weeks have been a whole new normal. He’s taken a voyage on the dreaded non-contactable boat. A black hole in a world rife with technology. The very center of my stomach quivers, my toes tingling in apprehension.

Brooks, on a vessel in the middle of the ocean, with no way to contact anyone should anything go wrong. The possibility of tragedy seems endless.

I palm my stomach, pushing heavily against the unwelcome feeling. I clench my toes before stretching them outward.

He was confident in the boat’s safety, which is all I’ve been able to hold onto these past few weeks without the reassurance of a simple text message.

Digging my hands into my pockets as deep as I can, I shiver at the bite in the air. My cheeks are windburned. My lips coated with a thick balm to stop them from cracking in the frigid temperatures. I inhale the cold through my nostrils, enjoying the niggling pain it brings. It’s uncontaminated. The crispness engulfs you the moment you step from the warmth