“It’s a simple question, Archie,” he murmured. “All you have to do is answer. Does this —” he rolled his hips and I almost cried — “feel better than that silicone —”
“Yes! Fucking yes. Just hurry up and —”
He held himself up with one hand between my shoulder blades as he pounded into me and I felt like my entire body was melting. This was what I wanted. This waseverythingI wanted. I’d been telling the truth — Taylor was a million times better than a dildo. It wasn’t just the way he stretched me out, or the relentless thrusts, but the weight of him, the body heat, thenoises of exertion that escaped him, his hot breath on my neck, the fact that it was Taylor King doing this to me —
“It’s good,” I babbled, only half-conscious of what I was saying. “It’s so good, it’s so much better, and I wish — I wish that you could do this all the time, and, fuck —”
Taylor was moaning too, surprisingly high and sweet for his usually deep voice. It sounded like he was saying my name.
“T-Taylor —” I began in response.
He stopped, and I wanted to sob, but it was only to roll me onto my side. I met his eyes for the first time in what felt like a century. Colour was high in his cheeks, and his pupils were blown.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“What?” I reached up, and was shocked to find tears trailing from the outer corners of my eyes. “It’s nothing. Forget it. Just keep going.”
He began thrusting again, and I squeezed my eyes shut, as wetness slid from the corner of my eyes, past my cheeks, to my ears.
“Fuck,” Taylor said, and I opened my eyes to watch his face go slack as he shuddered on top of me.
I reached between my legs and only managed three strokes, before I came, hot and wet over the sheets and my tummy and thighs and fist.
When I was done, I rolled over so my face was in the pillows. I didn’t want to have to look at anyone. I didn’t want to have to think.
Taylor slid out of me, leaving me feeling weird and empty and a little sore, then crawled off the bed. As he creaked to the bathroom, I waited for the post-nut regret to hit me. He returned a minute later, and something wet touched my thigh.
I jerked up, seeing him holding a damp hand towel, brows raised.
“Oh,” I said, feeling myself redden. “I can do it myself.”
I thought he’d argue, but he handed it over, and flopped on the bed, cheek against the pillow, face turned to look at me. I determinedly kept my attention on cleaning up the cum and lube all over me. I must’ve looked like such a mess.
He reached out, and pushed a stray strand of hair from my forehead.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He pulled his hand back. “Nothing.” He dropped his hand against the mattress. “Well…” he began, sounding uncharacteristically awkward, and my shoulders tensed up as I imagined what he’d say.
It was nice using your hole. I’m gonna go to my room now.
I rolled onto my back so I didn’t have to look at him. I wished there was something more interesting on the ceiling, rather than a smoke alarm and a few suspicious grey stains.
“Let’s call it a draw?” Taylor said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Loser
What was he talking about? His face gave me no clues, expression wiped blank. Too blank.
Then I realised. “Piss off,” I said, elbowing him in the side. “You came before me, we both know it.”
He rubbed his side. “You played dirty.”
