“Need some help with this?” he murmured as he wrapped his hand around the velvety skin of Atticus’s hard length. Atticus didn’t say anything, just canted his hips forward into his fist with a moan.
“Were you jerking off thinking about me?” he teased, sweeping his tongue between Atticus’s lips. As always, he was pliant, letting Jericho take control, take whatever he wanted without question. It was so fucking hot.
He ran his other hand over Atticus’s bare hip, his fingers slipping into the furrow of his ass, his own cock throbbing when he found his hole was slick. He looked up into Atticus’s now crimson face. “You’re wet. Were you fingering yourself, Freckles? Were you getting yourself ready for me?”
Atticus was breathing hard but he still didn’t say anything. Jericho knew he should close the door. Anybody could step off that elevator and find them right there in the doorway, but knowing that only made it hotter. He released his cock and spun him around, trapping him against the door. He yanked his shirt off and tossed it away, hastily pushing his underwear and jeans down to his thighs. He teased the head of his cock between Atticus’s cheeks until it caught on his rim. “Are you already wet for me? Could I just push right in? No prep? Could I fuck you right here against the door? Is that what you want? Is that what you were thinking about when you were fingering yourself open for me?”
Atticus pressed himself back against Jericho’s cock. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on Atticus’s shoulder hard enough to leave an impression as the tight heat of his body closed around him. He made no move to go deeper. He wasn’t done playing with him yet. Instead, he let his hands roam his torso, tug at his nipples, tease around his cock, mouth at his neck, his shoulder, anywhere he could reach.
When Atticus tried, once more, to push back on Jericho’s cock, he made a tsking noise. “Uh-uh. You don’t get what you need until I get what I want. Understand?”
Atticus gave a whine of frustration, his voice raw when he said, “What do you want?”
Jericho chuckled, tugging at Atticus’s earlobe before saying, “You know what I want, Freckles. I want to hear you ask for it. I want you to tell me how badly you want my dick in your greedy little hole.”
“I hate you,” Atticus muttered, but there was no malice behind it.
Jericho buried his smile against Atticus’s shoulder as he slipped free, once more teasing the head of his cock against him, before dragging his teeth along his shoulder. “Come on, let me hear it. Say, ‘fuck me, Jericho.’”
Atticus’s back rose and fell against Jericho’s chest for a good thirty seconds before he muttered, “Fuck me, Jericho.”
Jericho didn’t know why he enjoyed torturing him so much. “Say it like you mean it, Freckles.” He wrapped a hand around his cock, giving it a few tugs. “I can feel how hard you are, how ready you are. It’s going to feel so fucking good when I’m buried inside you… Just tell me what I want to hear, make me believe it, and I’ll fuck you so hard your neighbors will call the cops.”
Atticus pressed his cheek to the door, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck me, please. Please…”
“Please, what?” Jericho prompted, pressing in just enough to make them both groan.
“Please, Jericho.”
Jericho was leaking at the raw desperation in his voice. He kissed his shoulder, then his cheek, whispering in his ear, “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” before burying himself in one hard motion.
Atticus’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, and Jericho had to bite down hard on his shoulder just to keep from coming right there on the spot. There was just something about this man. Jericho was addicted.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” Jericho muttered, his speed increasing as he chased the sparks of pleasure that spiked through him with each hard thrust. “I’ve been thinking about being inside you for hours. Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on my job when I can’t stop thinking about you?”
Atticus still remained silent, but he reached back, gripping Jericho’s ass, as if trying to pull him closer, get him deeper.
“You want more?” Jericho teased through gritted teeth.
“You know I do,” Atticus panted, arching his back.
Jericho gripped his hair, twisting his head back to give him a kiss, increasing his speed and intensity until the door was slamming hard against the wall and every fucking thrust was making them both moan into each other’s mouths.
Jericho finally reached around to grip Atticus’s cock, working him in time with his brutal thrusts, concentrating on the head until Atticus finally reached that point where he was no longer worried about being embarrassed and was just whining and gasping, “Oh, God. Oh, fuck.”
Jericho would usually try to prolong their pleasure, but the truth was, he couldn’t stop. The tight grip of Atticus around him felt too good, and the way he was moaning and muttering beneath his breath was just too much. He didn’t want to come before Atticus. “Come on. I wanna feel you come on my cock before I breed this tight little hole.”
Atticus sucked in a sharp breath, a strangled sound escaping before his hole pulsed around him, his release spilling over Jericho’s hand.
Jericho’s eyes rolled, his hips falling off rhythm as he gave two more hard thrusts, then emptied himself inside. He kept his arms around him, didn’t pull free of his body, just dropped his forehead to his shoulder, drawing in much-needed oxygen. As he softened, he slipped free, but they still continued to just linger for another few minutes before he finally stepped back and turned Atticus around, pressing a kiss to his flushed cheek.
“Damn, Freckles. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.” He fixed his pants but didn’t bother retrieving his shirt. “What’s for dinner?”
When Atticus went into his room to find clothes, Jericho followed, looking this way and that, as if he was trying to take it all in. He had no idea what could be so interesting about the large, bright space. It was very…minimalist. The decorator had called it Scandinavian decor. While he appreciated the clean lines, the Scandinavians clearly overestimated Atticus’s need for blankets. They were draped over couches and folded neatly in woven baskets. Hell, there was one draped over a ladder that led to nowhere.
He’d had no interest or input in the design of his own apartment. When he’d found the place, Kendra had instantly made herself at home, referring to the place as theirs. Atticus hadn’t cared enough to correct her. He’d figured it was going that way, anyway.
Kendra had hired a decorator—with his money, of course—but had turned into such a nightmare that three designers had quit within the first six months. They’d split up before the fourth one could complete the job. Atticus had considered just giving her the place and moving elsewhere but the family had freaked out. August had even threatened to put a bullet in her head if Atticus gave her a million dollar apartment as a consolation prize.
