“Do you feel better now?” Atticus asked.
“Yeah, I do.”
Atticus dragged their intertwined hands towards him and kissed the back of his hand in an unprompted display of affection that made Jericho’s stomach swoop like he was on a rollercoaster. “Good.”
Jericho slipped free of his body, sitting back on his knees. “Roll over for me, Freckles.”
Atticus did as he was told, not seeming in any particular hurry. Jericho immediately honed in on his flushed and leaking erection jutting from the nest of red curls. Jericho made an appreciative sound from between his thighs. “Bend your knees for me, plant your heels. That’s good. Open up for me. A little more. Mm, perfect.”
With Atticus nice on display for him, he laid on his belly and swallowed his cock down, head bobbing until he found a rhythm that had Atticus’s toes curling and his hands fisting in Jericho’s hair as he fucked up into his mouth.
Jericho snaked his fingers between his cheeks, pushing two fingers into his cum-soaked hole, groaning at the wetness. Atticus gave a hoarse shout when Jericho massaged over his prostate with intention. “Oh, fuck. That’s…”
Jericho pulled off, watching as Atticus squirmed, riding his fingers. “I love fingering this hole, love feeling my cum inside you. You like it, too. I can tell you’re close. I wanna feel you cum from the inside. I wanna feel your greedy hole tighten around my fingers.”
He closed his mouth back over Atticus’s cock, sucking him with an intensity that had him trying to work himself into his mouth and back on his fingers at the same time. “Oh, fuck. I’m so close.”
That’s the point.
Jericho didn’t say that, just kept stroking him from the inside, opening his throat so Atticus could go as deep as he wanted. It only took another minute or two and then he went rigid beneath him, the bitter taste of him flooding his tongue. He swallowed it all, sucking until Atticus pushed him away.
Jericho rolled off the bed and into the bathroom, washing his hands and grabbing a washcloth, running it under the water before returning to the bed and helping Atticus clean up.
When they were both relatively clean, Jericho chucked the washcloth onto the side table before gathering Atticus into his arms, the dopamine numbing him to any feelings about his sister.
“You have the dirtiest mouth I’ve ever heard,” Atticus said conversationally.
“Just with you, Freckles. Just with you. I know you like it.”
Atticus snorted. “And if I didn’t?”
Jericho shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”
Atticus shook his head. “Can you sleep now? We’re meeting my family tomorrow. You’ll want to be as…awake as possible for that.”
“Does the thought of me meeting your family make you nervous?”
“My family makes me nervous,” Atticus intoned dryly.
He said it like a joke but Jericho could tell it wasn’t. “Why’s that?”
After a minute, Atticus said, “I don’t think they like me very much.”
Anger flashed through Jericho’s system, but he tamped it down quickly. “Does that bother you?”
Atticus shrugged. “It irritates me that they don’t take my concerns seriously, that they think I just sit around looking for reasons things won’t work instead of seeing it as me being cautious about getting caught. But I don’t sit around crying about it or anything.”
Jericho dropped a kiss on the top of Atticus’s head, feeling the way his fingers spasmed where they lay across his stomach. Atticus always reacted so intensely to any random sign of affection. It made Jericho sad. Was Atticus really a psychopath, or had nobody taken the time to try to love him?
“Good night, Freckles.”
Atticus dropped a kiss to the skin just beneath where his head lay. Jericho was relieved when he made no move to head back to his own side of the bed. He needed the weight of Atticus to keep his brain in the off position.
Atticus tightened his grip on his torso as if he could read his mind. “Night.”
Jericho whistled low as they parked in front of Atticus’s father’s sprawling mansion. “This is your dad’s house…like where he lives…every day? Like, where he wanders around in his underwear and watches television?”
Atticus couldn’t help but snort at Jericho’s assessment of what ‘home’ meant to him. It made sense, though. Jericho was fond of nudity. And television. When they were at Atticus’s place, Jericho never bothered with clothes unless food was coming and, even then, only long enough to slap the money into the delivery driver’s hand. It worried Atticus how much he liked that about Jericho.
