His smile presses against mine, the tip of his tongue licking the seam of my mouth. I feel him pulse against the tip of my cock, the tight pucker kissing me at the same time he does. And then, he presses back.
His body squeezes my tip, drawing me into a tight sleeve of slickened heat. Remy blinks, his mouth parted enough that I can see his teeth pressed together. Spots of pink pop up on his neck and cheeks as I knead his hip and thigh, feeling utterly useless and yet spoiled as all hell. He feels so damn incredible. Each centimeter he takes me shoves the pressure to my balls, which are crying to force it in the opposite direction.
“Chris,” he gasps.
His chest heaves. A flood of breath rains down on me. With a determined look in his gaze, he rocks, capturing more of me. Oh, God. I try to breathe through the pressure of his channel’s hug. My fingertips are probably leaving bruises on his thighs. Hand pressed against my chest, he rocks again, and I feel the soft shell of his ass brush against my thighs.
Eyes slipping closed, he moans long and guttural. Fucking hell.
“Remy…you’re not real. How are you real?” I choke, a well of emotions threatening tears.
His eyes flutter open, mouth panting. He smooths his hand over my heart with something a lot like gratitude in his eyes, and then he moves. Slow undulations of his hips, his body pumping me, his movements pull incoherent sounds from my throat.
He’s so handsome and sweet, perfect in every way. And he wants me.Me!The rhythm is like making love in slow motion compared to how we used to mess around. It’s as though time has stopped and I’m in a dreamlike state, one where the focal point is every micro-expression on Remy’s face and the heady sounds he’s making as he stares into my eyes. This is really ourdo-over, this time we’ve spent together. It’s really happening. He’s really mine. I’m so damn gone for him; he can do whatever he wants with me. I just hope it’s for a very long time.
“Shit. Oh, shit,” I grit, the ache to release becoming the equivalent of a migraine in my balls. “Slow down. I’m—”
“Let go,” he cuts me off, bending down and cradling the back of my head. His lips drag over mine, and he whispers again, “Just let go. I want to feel you.”
My hips jerk without permission, my body obeying his sweet request. My cock makes up for the lack of use, pulsing so hard it makes me dizzy as I release into him. I have to blink through the spots in my vision, so I don’t miss his reaction. What I see only makes the weight of bliss more overpowering.
Mouth parted, his gaze looks drunk, as though I’m giving him an indescribable gift. My sweaty palm fumbles between us, taking him in my grasp. He groans, his eyes slipping closed. His cock is slick with dribbles of precum. I stroke through it, spreading it as I go until he jerks in my hand and his ring clenches around me.
“Yes. Yesss,” I pant, watching his head fall, a broken cry spilling out of him along with his release.
He moans my name and then whimpers it. Every nerve ending in my body sings at the sound. I use the last strength in my sapped appendages to pull him to me. We’re a pile of hot skin sticking to hot skin and winded, satisfied noises.
“It’s probably good we…haven’t been doing that…for fifteen years,” he pants against my chest, slipping onto his side next to me. “One of us would have had a heart attack.”
My tired laugh pulls me out of the darkness behind my heavy eyelids. “Just one of us, huh?” I tease, giving him a kiss.
“Me.One of us is me.” His hips shift away from my thigh, the air cooling the damp skin where his cock was sticking to it. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll go grab something.”
I roll with a grunt, putting him half under me to get him on his back and give him another kiss. “No. Stay. I’ll go.”
I get my feet on the floor and rise. My muscles feel as pliable as chewed bubble gum as I tromp to the bathroom. Hell, I think I might sleep like a brick tonight. Glancing back, I find Remy propped against a pillow, exhausted and smiling. He looks so happy and satisfied. I feel like a man, a whole man, for the first time in my life. Ironically, I don’t think it has anything to do with sex. I think it’s because he’s looking at me like I’m his.
CHAPTER 21
Remy
Cameron University’s auditorium is surprisingly full. I wonder if that means some professors still offer extra credit for attending these things. I’d like to believe it’s because the students know my man is about to speak, but that might just be me. It’s surreal to stand here at the back of the room where I spot a few professors doing the same near other doorways. On my way in, a gaggle of kids who looked like lost freshmen called me ‘sir’ and asked me if this was where the winter break safety briefing was. That expounds on just how long it’s been since any of them could have been me or Chris. God, we were just kids when we met.
People act like once you turn eighteen, you’re an adult. I used to think that too. It takes a hell of a lot longer than that to figure yourself, the world, and life out, though.
The emcee concludes her opening address and announces Chris. My stomach flips with nerves. He’s being so freaking brave doing this. I know he tried to act like he wasn’t freaking out the last few days, but I think I’m freaking out. He’s so hard on himself. I’m terrified he’ll either not get through it or critique himself too harshly afterward. He was up late last night, poring over his notes on his computer, Gale asleep by his feet, until I dragged him back to bed, insisting he try to turn his mind off.
The introductory applause sounds obligatory until Chris walks out on the stage. Immediately, a few catcall whistles echothrough the auditorium, making me chuckle. Chris’ stoic face looks like he’s ready to go into battle, but his gaze darts to the crowd in confusion for a second. He really has no idea how handsome he still is. This man.
He reaches the podium, and the dean shakes his hand, turning over the mic to him. To my surprise, he doesn’t stand behind it. He takes a few idle steps, explaining his affiliation with the university—his college football career, getting drafted and playing for the NFL, and how he’s a sportswriter covering their games for the paper now.
“So, why am I here to give you your winter break safety meeting?” he asks rhetorically. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I didn’t want to be here about as much as you probably don’t want to be right now either.” That gets him a laugh, but my stomach muscles tighten, and I press the skin at the tip of my thumb between my teeth.
“That’s what bad decisions do to you,” he explains. “They make you want to hide, not show up, or walk around with your head hung in shame, because they never go away. You can learn from them, sure, but you spend a lot of time wondering what life would have been like if you’d never made them in the first place.”
He then explains some details about the night of his accident; some I knew, some I didn’t. It only gets worse when he talks about waking up in the hospital, his surgeries, and his recovery.
“But it wasn’t exactly a recovery,” he adds. “Because guess what I did? I made yet another bad decision.”
