Catch And Release Ch 02 2

Drew reached down and brushed away the bangs that obstructed his view. For him, seeing was just as important as feeling. He needed to watch those swollen wet lips descend, see the way she worked his cock. Slipping his fingers in the backpacker's blond locks he gave a gentle tug, pulling her lips up his shaft to work the sensitive head. She released a throaty sigh, obviously liking the tug. He pulled again, slightly harder, rewarded by wet moaning vibrations surrounding his cock. He smiled and tugged again. She liked it a little rough, well so did he. Fingers fisted in her hair he held fast, thrusting into her mouth. She moaned again and after pulling away to shoot him a wicked look she took him deeper until the tight wet heat of her throat closed around the head.

She worked his dick like an experienced cocksucker. Deep throating him right down to his balls. She was a woman who loved giving head.

And—

fuck

—he loved getting head.

Britta, Brida, Breta, Brinda

—whatever the hell the hot young German's name was—gave great head.

Was she German? Maybe it was Austrian. She'd told him but as soon as her lips met his dick the information had dissolved—short term memory lost in a cock sucking fugue.

The sound of the beach drifted through the thin gauze curtains of the open sliding door—waves, seagulls and the chatter of people that flocked to the esplanade on a clear summer day. He could taste the salt of the breeze with each gasp of air. She twisted on her knees, taking him into her throat in a move that had him almost losing his load.

Not yet. Not yet.

Heart pounding and balls throbbing he pulled her back until her lips just circled the head in a pouty O. She looked up at him with eyes melting brown. A vision of Jules Starling dominated his thoughts in vivid Technicolor.

Jules beautiful face nestled between his thighs, his lips working down his cock. Grey eyes watching intently. Grace Hawthorne indulging her voyeurism.

Fuck!

He almost came at the idea. His balls drew up tight and his cock jerked. Drew pulled back until his cock audibly popped from her lips. The German purred, rubbing her spit slick cheek across the sensitive head.

He'd met her running. She'd sped up to meet his pace. Tanned and long legged with sweet little tits bound tight in a Nike sports bra. Young and carefree, she seemed far removed from the intense American and needy gay man that consumed Drew's thoughts with each pounding step on the pavement. He'd jumped at her invitation to join her back at the hostel, hoping a good fuck could rid him of their constant presence.

They were haunting him, those two. Every fucking moment of his day. Even now, here, naked with lithe willing perfection, he couldn't wrest his thoughts from tempting brown and cool grey eyes.

The problem was...they intrigued him.

That's why they appealed. That's why they'd grabbed him by the balls.

Separately they were interesting enough to get his attention but together,

together

they were fascinating—he found himself simply unable to turn away.

He was bored. He'd let his life get stagnant. Predictable. He was floating through life from one fuck to the next. He needed to take control. At the thought his cock jumped. They appealed because of the urge he had to control them—both.

He looked down at

Brigitte

—suddenly remembering her name—brown eyes looked up at him in confusion.

Damn

, he'd let himself drift away, forgetting where he was.

He smiled and she visibly relaxed. Crooking a finger he shook his head when she started to crawl up his body. She released a throaty laugh the moment she understood his meaning and turned around to straddle his face.

When her sweet young pussy was above him he delved into it with his full attention. Splaying his fingers on her hips he brought her cunt down to ride his tongue. She groaned and the vibration of it rumbled around his cock.

* * * *

Monday morning International Office staff meetings started as little more than federally funded weekend gossip sessions. Drew—who attended more for the coffee than the meeting—leaned back in his chair stretching out his back. Half listening he watched Sharla and the newly returned Lucy attempting to outdo each other with tales of debauchery from the Christmas break.

The line between reality and fantasy deliberately blurred as their stories descended into a competition for groans and laughter .Double entendres and far less subtle quips thrown thick and fast. Voices layered over each other until it was just a buzz of sound. Drew didn't join in. Interestingly he wasn't the only one—noticeably quiet was Jules Starling.

Which was odd.

Not because he always had a tale to tell—thinking about it, Jules was reticent to spill his own adventures—but because he always had an opinion. Usually sharp and invariably funny.

Not today.

Interesting.

The other silent party was of course Grace Hawthorne. It wasn't out of character for her to be quiet. Except...

She wasn't just quiet. She was thoughtful. Something was churning behind that stunningly cool façade and it definitely had to do with Jules Starling. Their frequent eye contact was fleeting, but loaded. They were both studiously—and unsuccessfully—avoiding looking at each other.

Why?

Friday he'd seen them, hands entwined over the reception desk. What had happened since then to make them both so damned uncomfortable in each other's presence? As Drew pondered the thought the gossip dwindled and department head Richard Drake started on the business at hand. He stood at the whiteboard at the end of the table. "As Orientation Week fast approaches we need to address the needs of incoming International students...."

Drew barely listened; he worked best without the ineffectual bureaucratic fumbling of Drake so most of the time he pretended he wasn't there. Pretending worked for them both. As Drew never complained when Drake took credit for his work Richard had no problem with his inability to act within the team dynamic.

Sipping his coffee he kept his eyes on Jules.

Jules was the key. Grace was too schooled at her countenance to crumble easily under questioning. Getting answers from her would take time, and he wasn't feeling particularly patient. Not when it came to these two.

He wanted to know what had happened. He wanted to know

now

.

It itched—the need to know—under his skin, like a burr. He had to dislodge it before it took root. Get it out of his system.

At the sound of Grace's clipped Connecticut accent he sat up. Drake had finished his pompous soliloquy and handed over to Grace, to no doubt do all the work.

She'd moved to stand at the end of the table, near Drake. He watched her perfectly painted lips as she spoke. She rounded out each word with deliberate enunciation. He wondered how she would groan, the sounds she would make as he sank into her. He'd heard her contained little pant as he'd fingered her to orgasm—had she ever broken, wailed out in an animalistic back bowing orgasm?

Blood was rushing to his cock so fast it was a wonder that his head didn't spin. Shifting in his chair, carefully adjusting his painfully hard cock, he cursed the tenuous grip on control he had in her presence.

She smiled, completely oblivious of her effect on him and gave a little head nodding bow. He caught her eye and her smile widened. Would her smile be so wide if she'd known he hadn't heard a single word of her carefully crafted little speech? If she knew he'd been thinking of ways to make her careful voice break in an uncontrolled wail?

"The Mentor Mixer will be held in the University Hall Common Room. Staff attendance is strongly recommended." Drake pointedly looked to Drew and most of the meeting chuckled—all those who knew that Drew never attended anything recommended by Drake.

It was a standing joke.

The rest of the meeting passed—thankfully—with enough boredom to completely deflate his erection. Drew didn't even risk a glance at Grace Hawthorne and her siren mouth.

He was right to concentrate his attentions on Jules. Confident that he was the easier of the two to handle, at the end of the meeting as they spilled out into the hallway he called out to him, "Jules."

The young man turned with a deer in the headlights look. Drew crooked a finger. "Walk with me."

Jules' eyes flickered to Grace, who was busy with Drake and then back to Drew. "Umm, I should..."

Drew cut in, not allowing him to finish his excuse, "I need you to arrange some travel."

"Oh." He looked relieved. "I can do that."

"Come with me now. I've got it all on my desk. It'll be faster than email."

They walked the hall in silence until they were almost at the door to Drew's office. "Don't you usually do your own travel arrangements?" Jules asked.

"Usually," Drew said, not offering any further information.

When they were in Drew's cubicle he motioned to the guest chair. "Take a seat."

"I thought you said it was on your desk. Can't you just hand it to me?"

The boy was nervous. His shoulders lifted as his breath came fast and the pulse at the base of his neck was obvious. "I need to print it out. Take a seat. It won't take long." Drew kept his voice calm. Rather than reassuring Jules it seemed to unnerve him more. With obvious reluctance Jules sat down.

Liking the way he'd unsettled him Drew tapped a beat on the table with his fingers. Keeping deliberately silent while he waited for his computer to boot up.

When he noticed that Jules had relaxed into the seat he spoke, "So, how was your weekend?"

Jules' shoulders tensed. "Fine."

"Do anything interesting?"

"Not really."

"Not even with the lovely Grace Hawthorne?"

He flushed bright red. "Who told....how do...." He stopped the moment he realized that he'd given himself away but it was too late. Scenting blood in the water Drew went on the attack. He stood, cocked a hip on the corner of his desk and with arms folded stared at the young man.

He didn't need to question. He didn't need to do more than look. Silence, he'd found over the years, was an attack in itself.

"We didn't do anything," Jules blurted out after less than a minute of suffering the quiet. Drew cocked an eyebrow.

"We kissed. That's it. Just kissed."

A feeling knifed through his gut. A sharp bite with an acid edge. What was that? Desire? Jealousy?

Jealousy.

For what? For whom?

For kisses? He didn't like the questions the feelings raised. He spoke to halt the thoughts, "Your first kiss."

"Yes."

Jules shifted back in the chair, wrapping his arms protectively around himself. Drew took a step forward. "Did you enjoy her mouth?"

"Yes." The word came out on a whimper.

"More than mine?" He kept his tone light, teasing, not letting it show how much he wanted answers.

"No. Yes. Maybe....I don't know. I don't know."

"Maybe we should do it again. So you're sure."

Brown eyes flashed up to meet his, the sizzle in them undeniable. Jules shifted forward, unfolding his arms and moving his hands to grip the arms of the chair. "With you?"

"No. Yes. Maybe...I don't know," With deliberate mocking Drew parroted back Jules' words, watching with pleasure at the way he again shifted in his seat.

"I want to," Jules whispered.

"I want to know about you and Grace."

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything." He crooked a finger under Jules' chin, guiding his face to look up at him. "Everything that has happened and everything that

will

happen."

"Will happen?"

"Don't tell me that it will end with just a kiss. You want more. Don't you Jules?"

Jules' face was an open book. As he imagined thoughts of what could come the feelings flickered across his face. Confusion. Lust. Wanting. Anticipation. Each expression a lick of fire in Drew's gut.

"Yes. I want more."

Drew heard the Scottish burr grow deeper in his voice, "And you'll tell me about it. Won't you?"

"Why? Why will I tell you?"

He brought his head down so that his mouth was a whisper away from Jules' lips. "Because I'll reward you."

"With kisses?"

Drew closed the gap, flicking his tongue along the slightly open seam of Jules mouth, tasting him. "And more," he murmured against the wet trail he'd created. "Maybe."

"More," the word came out as a groan that Drew could not resist. He sank into it, delving his tongue into Jules' mouth with a teasing flicker.

As the time before, control slid away at the taste of the young man—delicious naked desire. Irresistible. He didn't even try to hold back, instead once more pulling Jules up out of his chair and plastering his body against him.

Tilting his mouth, he pulled roughly at Jules' hair to move him where he needed. Each tug eliciting a moan that sent a shot of lust straight to his balls.

Through the fog of

need to fuck

he heard a sound. The braying laugh of Sharla and a teasing response from Lucy—voices in the hallway.

Fuck

. He had to stop. He pushed at the same time that he pulled away. Jules went stumbling back into the guest chair.

Drew's heart beat out like a hammer on steel. Pounding loud cracks. Spearing a hand through his hair he shot a look at Jules and shook his head. Jules looked down, which sent his eyes following. Straight to the ramrod in his lap, the cock he'd just been grinding against like a horny teenager.

Fucking hell.

He shifted behind his desk, pounded on the keyboard emailing Jules the information he needed to arrange his travel. "I just emailed you the travel details."

"Right. Then I'll arrange that," Jules said with a nod.

"Good." Drew pretended to be intent on his computer screen. From the corner of his eye he saw Jules get up from the chair and move to the opening of his cubicle.

"I'll see you later," Drew said with a nod, not looking up from his computer.

"I'll do it."

Drew nodded again, thinking he meant the travel arrangements. It was only when Jules repeated the sentence that Drew realized he might have meant something different. He looked up. "You'll do what?"

"Tell you. Whatever you want to know. About Grace. If you....If we... If we can do more."

His blood ran hot and cold. Control slipped and he heard his accent rough and deep. "Aye then, I say what goes. I won't stop you from asking, but I say what happens."

Jules nodded. "I want that...I want you to tell me."

The submissive acceptance sent his cock rock hard once again. He wanted nothing more than to pull him under the desk and order him to swallow his cock. The vision of a joyfully submissive Jules on his knees made his balls ride up painfully taut.

Drew nodded and Jules scurried away; Drew let out a sigh of relief and adjusted his cock. What the fuck had he just done?

He'd only wanted to know what was going on between Grace and Jules. That's all. How he ceded control so quickly? Why had he offered more? He'd further entwined himself with Jules and Grace Hawthorne. He needed to untangle the threads they'd bound him in—take back some control.

It seemed he couldn't resist them, so he would have to control them. It was the only way.

Take control. Of Jules and Grace.

* * * *

While Grace was well schooled at hiding the obvious it seemed she no longer had the desire. A life time of pretending should have made it easy for her to deny what had happened between her and Jules—but she didn't want to.

All day they'd been studiously polite. Cold and impersonal. They'd moved around each other as if traversing a mine field—with light and careful steps. Testing before moving even slightly forward.

They were at a fork in the road. She knew it. He knew it. They sat across from each other at the Staff Club. The waitress had taken their order and coffee would soon arrive. She knew that, right now, seated on these awful steel chairs, would decide the course of their future relationship.

She had a choice. If Grace pretended—used her shield of cool indifference to erase Friday night—she was certain that Jules would follow suit.

When she was making her way to work this morning it that was exactly what she'd decided—to pretend it had not occurred. But now, looking into Jules soft brown eyes she found that she could not.

She could not lie. To him or herself.

For the first time in her life she wanted a real relationship. A truthful one. It was both scary and exhilarating. Taking a deep breath she decided to take the plunge and go with complete honesty. "So, Jules. I'm not sure what we should say. I'm a bit uncomfortable."

He laughed. A joyous sound that had a few heads turning their way. "A bit uncomfortable? I'm totally shitting myself here."

"Well," Grace said in a puff of air, unable to think of any other response.

"Well," Jules parroted back.

They stared at each other. It started as a tickle. A slight feeling that crackled in her chest. It built and built until finally unable to hold it in Grace began to laugh. Pealing laughter that made her shoulders shake and her belly ache. "This is ridiculous. Isn't it?" The words came out between gulps of laughter.

He reached across the table and took her hand in his. "It is."

Their coffee arrived and the laughter subsided. "How about," Jules said over the steaming white cup, "we don't label this thing between us. We just let it be whatever it is."

"Whatever it is." Grace had never just let anything be. She dissected, researched, studied, and planned. The idea was liberating and terrifying. It was a good feeling. She nodded. "I like that."

Jules broke into a devastating grin. "Me too."

"Are you coming to the Mentor Mixer on Friday?"

"Of course I am darling. What are you wearing?'

And just like that Grace was at ease. Jules continued to chatter, dictating his fashion edict. The conversation wrapped around her like a well worn sweater. It was effortless—for the first time in her life she felt....comfortable.

Jules halted his fashion spiel and tilted his head. "What honey?"

"I really like you Jules."

He laughed. "I like you too honey."

* * * *

Orientation preparation for her Mentor Program kept Grace busy all week. While the Mentors were chosen for their maturity and responsibility—most were in a Grad course—they were still students and therefore notoriously unreliable. Getting them all in the one place at the one time was like herding cats. Damned near impossible.

By the time the first drink was poured she was exhausted. But in a good way. Looking around the room she felt a sense of achievement that had been missing for some time. In her last job she had been worked hard, but without challenge. Here in a different country, surrounded by new rules, new people, she was flying by the seat of her pants. Innovating—an action wholly unfamiliar to a Hawthorne.

She leaned back against the bar and sighed.

"Miss Hawthorne." His voice came before the touch of his hand, but it in no way prepared her for the electric spark of his skin.

She tried and failed at appearing nonchalant, her voice cracked in reply, "Dr Maxwell."

He chuckled and the sound was like a finger slowly stroking down the bumps of her spine.

"I thought you didn't come to these events." Everyone had told her that he didn't.

"You've been thinking of me then?" Every word he said had a direct line between her legs. The rough Scottish burr tugged at her very center. She felt a hot charge of wet wanting settle between her clenched thighs.

"Why are you here?"

He laughed, turning the heads of a few of her female student mentors. A Brazilian student with waves of sleek black hair and sun bronzed skin sent him a flirtatious wave. He waved back, adding a wink and a wicked smile. "To network of course. Isn't that what you wanted the staff to do?"

Yes. That is what she'd said at the staff meeting. The meeting at which he'd stared off into space and ignored her every word. "Network. Not pick up."