My protest is cut off as he strokes back into me while maintaining eye contact. After a few more gentle strokes, he sets a beastly rhythm, snapping his hips as he bottoms out, nailing that spot inside me with everything he has.
He leans forward, gripping me firmly around my neck, taking me apart with his searing looks and undulating hips and breathtaking kisses. I’m the absolute center of his focus; his only concern is my pleasure.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand he knows exactly what he’s doing, and god, he shows me the world. I pulse-clench around him, and his breath catches. He sees my smirk and shakes his head. “Fucking Bash,” he whispers under his breath.
We kiss and fuck and exchange heated, puzzled looks. I don’t know why we feel so good; I don’t think he does, either. We justdo.
He grabs a pillow and shoves it under my ass, bringing one of my legs up over his shoulder and grabbing the opposite hip so he can push in even deeper.
I take myself in hand as he continues to nudge up against that bundle of nerves inside of me, the subtle snap of his hips at the end of each stroke taking me apart in more ways than one. I start to get loud, and he continues pumping into me as all of the pleasure in the universe concentrates in my lower belly, an orgasm barreling down my spine, exploding so viciously, cum streaks across my chest and into my hair.
His arms surround me as he fucks me, smashing into me for a kiss, violent with teeth and tongue as his impossibly talented hips speed up even more.
Suddenly, he lets out a cry and his body goes stiff. He shakes, pushing his face into my neck as his orgasm races through him. We lock eyes again, and his shocked look and broken inhale tell me this isn’t how his usual hookups go, either.
He slumps against me for several moments, until his cock softens inside of me. Carefully, he slips out and takes care of the condom. He comes back with a warm washcloth and is gentle as he cleans me up.
I open an arm to him as he climbs into bed, fitting himself right into my side, his head on my chest. I hold him and kiss his temple as we cuddle into one another, falling asleep in this position, no clue what the morning will bring.
14
Omar
I’m standing at the counter, spacing out as the hiss of water is followed by the smell of rich coffee and steam escapes into the darkened kitchen.
My mind, ever vigilant, is completely, utterly offline.
I can’t believe I held him.
I can’t believe I kissed him.
I can’t believe I fucked him.
It wasn’t fucking, though, was it? When I fuck someone, I don’t wake up the next day with a whole new outlook on life. I don’t look at the man sleeping next to me and stay quiet so I can watch the half-smile on his lips for just a few more minutes. I certainly don’t make coffee for two and wonder how the hell I’m going to get into the headspace needed to complete the job we were sent here to do.
Thing is…he heard what I said and didn’t look at me like I was a terrible person or irrevocably damaged. I’ve done a lot of work on myself to get to this point in my life, but I’m grinning right now because I’m pretty sure his thought process was way simpler.
Probably something along the lines of “Oh, a sad thing happened. You must need a hug. And sex. Let’s figure out how to make that work.”
So here I stand, elementally shifted because of the fucking brilliance of his simple approach.
Sometimes you must make horrific choices. Some people are terrible. Find the joy anyway. Take the bad guys out. Make the world a better place.
Maybe you just need a fucking hug.
Fucking brilliant.
He finally stirs, a man-sized lump in a swirl of sheets, then cracks his neck and stands, stretching, naked, morning wood at full attention. Scratching his belly, he makes his way to the bathroom, his thick, wheat-colored hair sex-mussed and perfect.
I check the stitches on my hand and admire his work, wondering what kinds of surgeries he’s involved in.
A few minutes later, he exits with his hair knotted in a loose bun, wearing a pair of candy corn boxers that cling to his ass for dear life. I swear, I feel drunk. I can’t quite figure out which part is having the most effect on me. The way his gorgeous eyes find trouble wherever they land? The way his colorful tattoos make love to every muscle? The heavy dick visible beneath the ridiculous underwear? That blondish patch of hair right above his waistline, a reminder that this is a very male, very beautiful ass I’m distracted by?
Let’s call it a tie.
He stops at the edge of the kitchen, hesitant, approaching me the way one might approach an animal of unknown temperament.
“G’mornin’,” he mumbles, gravely and barely intelligible as he wraps his arms around himself, shivering from the slight chill in the cabin.
