His eyes widened in surprise, but his face remained stony. “Seriously, Freckles. I’ve had a bad day, and I kind of want to hurt someone. I have no idea what I’ll do to you if you stay.”
“I think I can take it,” Atticus said, not at all certain that was true.
Jericho surged forward, spinning Atticus around until the counter dug into his hips, trapping his cock against a drawer with a metal pull. It hurt, but he stayed silent. He nipped at his ear. “Last fucking chance.”
Atticus steeled himself for whatever came next. He’d never had penetrative sex with a man, had honestly never made it past hand jobs and rubbing off on each other. He could handle pain. He wasn’t afraid of the act itself, just of how overwhelmed he felt with Jericho pressing him into the counter, his voice somewhere between a threat and a plea, like he didn’t know if he wanted Atticus to stay or go.
Atticus already knew it didn’t matter. “I’m not leaving.”
Jericho’s hands were under his hoodie, dragging it over his head and tossing it away, before Atticus even finished speaking.
“God, I love all these freckles,” Jericho muttered almost to himself, licking and biting at his shoulder as if to prove it.
Atticus liked the warm press of Jericho’s chest against his back, the pleasure/pain of his tongue and teeth on his skin. He pulled Atticus back against him, his hand slipping into Atticus’s sweatpants, a low rumbling sound escaping when he closed his calloused palm around his aching cock. “No underwear. And you’re already hard for me.”
He said it like he was pleased, like Atticus had done something well. He could quickly become addicted to this sensation. As Jericho stroked him slowly, his whole body flushed, breath hitching when the rough fingers of his other hand teased at the stiff peaks of his nipples.
Atticus took some solace in knowing Jericho was hard, too. He could feel it pressed against his ass each time he pushed back against him.
“You trying to tell me something?” Jericho teased.
Atticus shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Suddenly, Jericho’s hands disappeared. “Come with me.”
Atticus blinked at the abrupt change but did as Jericho asked. The closed door led to his bedroom, which was essentially a mattress and box spring on the floor and a side table that looked like it was a hand me down. The room was sparse but clean. Even his bed was made. Before he could hope to guess what would happen next, Jericho pinned him to the wall and kissed him deep. “I’m negative, on PReP. You?”
Atticus did his best to follow another shift in the conversation. “I’m negative, but I’m not on PReP.”
Jericho caught his lips in another dirty, opened-mouth kiss. “There are condoms if you want. I just really want to be inside you.”
Atticus felt hot enough to blister, flushing all the way to the tips of his ears. He swallowed audibly. “Okay.”
Jericho pulled back then, examining him. “I mean, I can bottom. I prefer to top, but if that’s not your thing…”
“I don’t have a thing,” Atticus blurted. “I’ve never—” He cut himself off. “Never mind. You can top. I’m good with that,” he promised.
He lurched forward, capturing Jericho’s mouth for only a second before a hand pressed him back against the wall once more, holding him there.
“You’ve never what?” Jericho asked, studying him intently.
Atticus gazed at a spot on the wall over Jericho’s shoulder. “I told you, I’m not gay. I’ve never done…that before. It’s not a big deal. I’m a doctor, I’ve got the mechanics down. Can we just go back to the sex part because the talking part is killing my mood.” He tried to kiss him again, but Jericho held him still, continuing to study him.
When Atticus couldn’t take it anymore, he said, “Do you want me to go?”
There was another pause, and then Jericho swayed into his space, fitting their lips together in a soft, barely-there kiss. “Nah, Freckles. I don’t want you to go. I just think I found myself a different distraction for the night.”
Jericho took his hand and led him to the bed, removing Atticus’s sweatpants, letting them pool around his ankles. He awkwardly removed his shoes and socks, stepping free of them.
As soon as he was naked, Jericho shoved him back on the bed, following him down, forcing him to retreat farther up the mattress to make room for him.
Jericho didn’t lie on top of him, just hovered over him, knees forcing his thighs apart, holding all his weight on his palms as he leaned down to kiss him softly, teasing his tongue along the seam of his lips but not pushing in. “Come on,” he murmured lightly. “Open up for me. You know what I want.”
Atticus hated how easily he yielded, mouth opening beneath Jericho’s so he could sweep his tongue inside. He hated the way his cock leaked the moment Jericho took charge. He hated how much neither of those statements were true.
It was too much—this crushing want was too much for somebody who never felt anything. It was like thinking you were pressing your tongue to a battery when it was actually an electric fence. Still, he knew he wasn’t going to stop this. He was becoming addicted to the shock of adrenaline that coursed through him with the slightest touch from Jericho.
“We—We can skip the seduction part and get on with it,” Atticus said, tone grumpy.
