Atticus groaned. “What are you waiting for?”
Jericho kissed him deep, loving the way Atticus sucked greedily at his tongue. “You know what I’m waiting for, Freckles. I told you I wasn’t going to fuck you until you were begging for it. Until you couldn’t think of anything but me inside you. Are you there yet?” he taunted against his lips.
“Yes,” he said, voice bordering on a whine. “You know I am.”
Jericho dragged his lips over his chin, his jaw, nosing behind his ear. “I need the words. I need to hear you beg.” When he pulled back to look at Atticus, indecision played across his face, like he was battling between his pride and his need. “I told you, nobody’s gonna know. Nobody but me.” He pressed in just the slightest bit, loving the way Atticus gasped. “It’s going to feel so fucking good when I slide inside you. I know you want it, too. Look at how hard you are just thinking about it. Just give me what I want and I’ll give you what you need.”
“Please…” Atticus managed, like it physically hurt him.
“Please what, Freckles?”
Atticus squeezed his eyes closed, voice strained as he said, “Fuck me. I want you inside me. I—I want you to do the things you said. Please.” When Jericho didn’t move, Atticus’s eyes opened once more, gaze pleading, his voice catching on a choked sound. “Please…”
Something broke in him at the sound and he sank into Atticus in one go, not stopping until he was buried. He pressed their foreheads together, trying not to come on the spot from the sucking heat of his body.
“Just move. Please. This is torture,” Atticus muttered.
Jericho chuckled. “Not exactly a glowing review.”
When Atticus lifted his legs to wrap them around his waist, all the humor faded away. Jericho lowered himself until he was braced on his forearms, working himself in and out with shallow thrusts, letting Atticus get used to the sensation.
When he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, they both moaned. It wasn’t long before Atticus was rolling his hips up to meet each of Jericho’s downward thrusts and he knew they were both close.
He stood, catching Atticus beneath his knees, splaying them wide as he fucked into him like he wanted. “Touch yourself for me. I want to see what I missed earlier while my cock was in your mouth.”
Atticus was clearly too far gone to care about his pride because he moaned when his hand wrapped around his own leaking erection. Jericho couldn’t take his eyes off of him, not sure what he liked more, the confident slide of Atticus’s fist as he jerked himself or how his face looked as he did it, head back, lips parted, eyes closed.
Jericho couldn’t hold out much longer. He fucked Atticus the way he’d been thinking about fucking him since the cabin, driving into him, hard and fast, chasing the shocky pleasure that rocketed through him each time his cock slammed home. He was so close, so fucking close, but he wanted to feel his body spasm around him. “Fuck. You look so good. I just want to watch you come.”
Atticus’s gaze flew to him as he cried out, his release shooting across his belly and chest, a tiny bit even reaching his chin.
“Oh, fuck,” Jericho managed, eyes rolling at the way Atticus pulsed around him.
Atticus’s gaze was glued to where their bodies were joined, watching as Jericho drove into him for another full minute before his orgasm punched through him. He captured Atticus’s lips, moaning into his mouth as he rode the waves of pleasure coursing through him.
When he could think again, he gently released Atticus’s legs, but didn’t stop the lazy slide of their mouths until Jericho licked the drop of cum that had landed on his chin.
“You came a lot. You clearly needed that,” Jericho said, then laughed. “I needed it, too.”
He flopped down beside him, his feet flat on the floor as they were still at the foot of the bed. Almost immediately, Atticus sat up. Jericho practically clotheslined him, his arm barring his exit. “You’re not leaving.”
“Am I a hostage now?” Atticus asked, not sounding particularly bothered by the notion. “It’s just sex, right? You fuck and then leave. That’s friends with benefits, no?”
Jericho furrowed his brow. “No? Friends with benefits implies that we’re friends, right?”
Atticus looked away, once more attempting to stand. “My mistake.”
Jericho again barred his retreat. “My God, do I have to tie you to the bed? I’m saying if you want to be friends with benefits, you could try actually being friendly.”
Atticus sort of deflated. “I’ve never had a friend before. I don’t think I’m qualified.”
Jericho understood that better than most. “Well, most of my friends are barely old enough to drink. But I’ve had a really shitty fucking day so can you just…just stay? For a while at least,” Jericho asked, hating how desperate he sounded.
Atticus stared straight up at the ceiling. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Thank you,” he said, unable to keep the mild exasperation from his voice.
He wasn’t used to needing other people. He didn’t even like most people. His brother, the boys—they were like when people go through war together. They had bonds nothing could touch. They had family, but most of their scars were homegrown. Blood didn’t mean shit to them. He cared about the people who stuck.
