Take Your Time With Me
The next day felt different.
Paris was overcast. Soft light spilled across the Seine. I hadn’t replied to Dylan’s texts. Not the 11 pings from the gym. Not the “fuck, Spaghetti Noodle. i’m hard thinking about your throat.” Not the picture of his cock bulging in compression pants.
I let them sit there, unopened.
Because tonight, I was walking to Elliot’s studio, the hot french guy I met a few days ago.
His message from earlier echoed in my head:
Elliot: “Come by at 7. I’ll have wine. And maybe something to taste ;)…”
My heart was pounding before I even buzzed up.
_________________
The studio was warm and shadowy. A converted attic with sloped ceilings, vintage rugs, and huge, industrial windows that looked out over Montmartre. It smelled like paint and spices. He met me at the door in a black button-down and barefoot.
He took my coat, kissed both cheeks...French styleand handed me a glass of red wine. Then he studied me like I was something beautiful. “You clean up very well,” he murmured, eyes lingering at my mouth.
I took a sip, flushed. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Elliot’s door opened and for a second I forgot what I was doing in Paris.
He stood there barefoot, wearing a soft black shirt with the top few buttons undone, collarbones showing. His hair was messy, like he’d been painting or pacing. And when he looked at me, he didn’t smirk, didn’t wink, he took me in with this slow, low-lidded hunger like he’d been thinking about me all day.
“Bonsoir,” he said, voice like velvet. “You came.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I murmured.
He didn’t speak. Just stepped closer and kissed me, soft and slow, tasting like wine and something darker. I melted into him instantly, my hand catching his jaw, fingers brushing through his hair as his mouth moved with mine. He kissed like he photographed his models.....intentional, unhurried, intimate. Tongue just barely teasing, lips pressing harder, breathing me in. His hands slid under my coat and tugged it down my arms. I was already dizzy, hard, needy in a way I hadn’t been in days.
He walked me back until I hit the wall. His thigh pressed between mine. Our hips brushed. We didn’t rush. We just kissed like we had all the time in the world to devour each other. “You smell so good,” he whispered, nose at my neck. “I want to taste every inch of you.”
He undid the button on my jeans, slow. Eyes locked on mine. I watched his knees bend. He sank in front of me, kissing my lower stomach, then the inside of my thigh...mouth open, breath hot, teasing, dragging his lips along my skin like he was starving. I gasped when his tongue flicked just above the base of my cock. My hands hit his shoulders, gripping, steadying myself.
He looked up. " Let me taste you, ma chérie (my darling). .”
He took my cock into his mouth slowly, like he was savoring a dessert, like he loved this. His lips wrapped around my shaft as his tongue swirled, soft and wet and perfect. He moaned softly when my dick hit the back of his throat deep, not from discomfort, like he liked it, like it turned him on. His hands stroked my thighs, my hips. He let me rest one hand in his curls as his mouth moved gently up and down, sliding down my cock with just the right pressure, then pulling back to kiss and lick the tip, dragging his tongue over the slit like he was tasting honey.
“Fuck, Elliot…”
He hummed around me, eyes locked on mine.
“C’est bon?” he asked, voice breathy. (Is that good?)
I couldn’t speak. Just nodded. My knees were shaking.
He picked up the pace, slow and deep and hypnotic, and I could feel myself starting to lose it. My thighs tensed. My breath hitched. And when I came, it wasn’t violent,..it was melting.. So soothing.... He held me through it, swallowing everything, licking me clean with soft little kisses. Like he didn’t want to waste a drop. I couldn't believe I was so turned on that I ended up shooting a load in him in no time.
When I opened my eyes, he was still on his knees, eyes glazed, lips shiny. “You taste like a desert, ma chérie,” he said, voice wrecked. “Now let me feel your precious lips on me, Troy.”
He stood, undid his shirt, pulled it off without taking his eyes off me. His chest was smooth, golden, lean muscle under soft light. I pressed my lips to his collarbone, kissing my way down slowly across his chest, his abs, the sharp V of his hips. He tugged his pants down and I took his beautiful cock into my mouth like I wanted to learn him the way he’d just learned me.
He groaned as soon as I sucked him in. One hand buried in my hair. The other braced against the wall. I tasted his precum, sweet and warm, as I bobbed slowly, letting my tongue swirl and explore, teasing him the way he’d teased me. He whispered things in French I didn’t understand, breathless, gasping, moaning. I didn’t need a translation, I could feel it in the way his cock twitched on my tongue, in the way he whispered, “Mon amour…” (my love…)
He held me like I was precious.
I made him moan like he was mine.
He didn’t fuck my throat, he let me worship him. He was gentle, very gentle. Something I am not used to with Dylan.
His thighs trembled. His breath went sharp. And just when he was close, he pulled me up and kissed me, messy and hot and urgent, like he couldn’t bear to come without feeling my mouth against his.
“I want to take my time with you, Troy,” he murmured. “Get you comfortable. Make you feel safe.”
“You already do,” I whispered.
And when we kissed again, it was deep and slow. He pulled me onto the couch, our shirts off, pants barely on. We made out like teenagers, hands exploring, bodies grinding. There was no rush to fuck. Just the pleasure of touching. Feeling. Wanting.
Somewhere in the middle of it, my phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
Buzz.
Buzz-buzz.
I could feel it in my pocket.
Buzz. A preview from Dylan popped up on the lock screen.
“Where are you.”
“Spaghetti Noodle I’m fuckin hard.”
“i swear if you’re with someone else i’m gonna ruin myself thinking about your mouth.”
I didn’t open it. Didn’t respond.
Elliot was kissing me too softly.
Too deeply.
He tucked my hair behind my ear and whispered, “Mon cœur…” (my heart…)
Later, we ate dinner on the floor....he made lemon pasta and grilled vegetables with feta. We drank the rest of the wine. I sat in one of his t-shirts. He sat shirtless, smiling like I was his favorite painting. “You look good in my clothes,” he said.
“You look good without them.”
He laughed, kissed me again, and got up to clear the plates. “Stay. I want to fall asleep with you tonight.”
I lay back on the bed. Warm. Drunk. Drifting.
Then...ping.
A voice note.
From Dylan.
I stared at the screen reading the live translation pop up.
“You think Paris makes me forget what you sound like gagging on my cock?”
“I know your mouth, Troy. I fucking miss it.”
"I miss that twink little hole of yours, where are you? FUCK. spaghetti noodle.."
_______
Troy’s spending the night with Elliot. A quiet dinner. Candlelight. Kisses that taste like wine and promises. He’s trying to forget how Dylan made him feel; desperate, humiliated, aching.
But just when he thinks he can breathe again… he gets a voice note.
This is that voice note. From Dylan.
How’s Dylan going to react when he finds out Troy’s not alone tonight?
And more importantly…
What’s Troy going to do next?
Note to Readers:
If you have been liking the story so far, consider supporting on my Patreon for early access to future parts, bonus scenes and much more.
You will find early access to Part 4-9 , which is already posted on there along with a voice note from Dylan.
Stay tuned for more updates.
