He Can’t Get Enough Cock

Pete pulled out of me to masturbate himself to ejaculation. I turned onto my side, facing Pete, and finished myself with my hand.
*****
I let out my breath in a dissatisfied hiss as Pete pulled out of me, went down on his back beside me in the bed, jerked the condom off his cock, and masturbated himself to a quick ejaculation. I turned onto my side, facing Pete, and finished myself with my hand after I’d watched the cream burble out of his cockhead. I’d still been grinding against him, taking him deep, still building up to my zone of Nirvana, when he’d left me.
I think he’d done it on purpose. He knew I needed a long buildup and wanted to luxuriate in the zone with my partner for a while before I came. The zone came faster the second and third times. I wanted it repeatedly. Pete could do that if he wanted to. He’d done that well enough for long enough that we’d melded enough that, though not married, we’d become one in everything else. We owned the house in Philadelphia together. We worked together—I in front of the camera and he behind it in TV commercials—we shared a closet. We even shared an underwear drawer—and the briefs in it. It made me feel extra sexy to wear Pete’s briefs, feeling his intimacy close to my skin.
I lay there, on my side, toying with my cock, wishing I could lure Pete back into the bed, back inside me, so that he could complete me—would take me into the Nirvana zone and let me ride on the clouds as I rode his cock. But he was having nothing of that, pulling clothes out of closet and drawers and consulting on what I wanted to keep and what he could take....