“Please,” he adds.
Chris begging me to fuck him is not something I ever imagined I’d hear. Falling forward, I brace myself on my forearm, hugging him against me with my other. I hope the way I sweep my lips over his tells him my answer and how careful I’ll be. Running my hand down his hip, I detour to retrieve my wallet from my back pocket. When I get the packet of lube out of it, I watch him put the cart before the horse. Still craning his neck to kiss me, he reaches back, unfastening the button on my jeans and lowering my zipper. When he reaches inside, his kisses grow hungrier, his breathing more rapid. And me? Well, my head is spinning already.
Rising, I have to extricate myself from his hand. “Gonna need that back,” I tease, shoving my jeans and underwear down my hips to coat myself in the liquid.
I save an ample amount to dribble in his crease, swiping my trembling fingers through it. With each circle I trace around his circumference, he spreads his legs, arches his hips, and groans. Carefully, I press the center and slip inside. My ears are attuned to his every sound. The way he relaxes so quickly and acceptsme humbles my heart. Trust from Chris isn’t easily given. I know how precious this gift is.
Working the lube inside his heat, my fingertip brushes against his bundle of nerves. His head arches back. The moan he lets out had to have been heard by Gale and every dog on the street. Holy hell, he is beautiful.
“My prostate works,” he gasps. “Thank fuck something works. Aw, thank fuck.”
I choke on a bubble of laughter, smoothing my hand tenderly over the uneven line on his spine. “It works just fine,” I assure him. “But your parents might not invite me back if you get any louder.”
Grunting, he shifts his hips back, taking me deeper. “They sleep…downstairs. It’s fine.”
He went from being a Nervous Nelly about essentially coming out to his parents at Christmas to riding my finger on the same night under the same roof. In the years after college, I sometimes told myself that he used to only think with his dick. Tonight, I can safely say his prostate is running the show with that kind of unabashed talk.
Leaning over him, I sweep into his mouth while I continue to work him. It’s the only way I can think of helping to keep him quiet so he regrets nothing during breakfast tomorrow with Vince and Rose.
When my second finger makes a sweep of his gland for the third time, he reaches back and pulls my hips closer. Tearing away from my mouth, he gasps, “You. Now you.”
As I tear my shirt over my head and take in the sight that his bare skin and glistening crease make, I want more than I ever have. I want to go home. I want to crawl into one of our beds. Want to curl up on the couch. Watch Gale run around his backyard. See how the afternoon sun kisses his frame, and how sexy he looks in sweatpants. I want to watch the way his facelooks when he falls asleep with a book open in his lap. I want to go anywhere, holding his hand. I want to feel it age in mine. I want to live…just live with Chris at my side for however long life will let us.
Bracing a hand on the bed, I line myself up and hold a kiss to the side of his neck. When I tell him to push, he does, and then his body grabs me, pulling me in the way his presence has ever since the first time I laid eyes on him. Urgent and all-consuming.
Sounds of shock fall from both of our lips. We hang in the silence and the pressure until his body calls for more, easing the way. I brace my other hand on the bed, brushing his pinky incessantly with my thumb through each nudge of my hips. Head hung, mouth gaping, the soft whines that fall from his lips dance charges of static through my groin as I pepper his shoulder with kisses.
“This…” he pants a moment after my hips touch his ass. “This is what I needed—the man I love inside me.” A shaky exhale racks his body beneath me. "The only man I've ever loved, Remy."
My heart overflows, my arms quivering. I have to bite the inside of my lip and think of awful things to resist the temptation of coming and weeping. Blowing out a breath, I rest my forehead against his shoulder, pinch my eyes closed, and move.
“You have me…for as long as you want me.”
Going slow, so I don’t hurt his spine, is a torture of its own. I find the right angle and the perfect rhythm soon enough. His sounds of pleasure rise, filling me with gratitude.
He cries out my name, and his body demonstrates how strong it still is, clamping around me in pulses that make me go lightheaded. I give him what he wanted, what I can no longer hold back, getting drunk off the change in his sounds when he feels me release. He reaches back, fingers digging into my hip to hold me there like he doesn’t want it to end. We may go slowerthan we used to, but we’re still two forces of nature that boggle my mind.
Heaving, I slip out and raise an arm while he turns over, then collapse on the bed next to him. I wrap him in my arms as we come down.
“You okay?”
He nods, looking too sated still to speak. His hand grips my forearm and squeezes. Turning his head, he presses his forehead to mine and whispers, “Thank you.”
“For what?” I chuckle. “Sex?”
His droopy eyelids rise, and he shakes his head against mine. “For giving me a chance again. For loving me.”
This from the man who once referred to himself as a grumpy asshole. “You were always my only chance, Chris. I love you.”
The bed dips when he rolls to his side, his big arms swallowing me in a hug. The kiss he gives me is an extension of an orgasm, slow and lazy, deep and soulful.
“Thank you,” he whispers again, smiling and looking into my eyes. “But you can still show me with your dick now and then.”
I bark out a laugh. I don’t mind anymore that a part of us will always be twenty-two, but the way twenty-two-year-olds shouldn’t take everything as seriously as we did back then. We get up eventually and wobble to the bathroom, exchanging more touches and kisses. I pause when he steps inside the stall for his second shower of the night and glances back to see if I’m coming. I think whoever dubbed himMightywas correct. As for the fallen part, well, that’s accurate too. He reaches out for my hand, and there’s no denying the love in his eyes or how deep it runs.
EPILOGUE
Remy—7 Years Later
