The words hit me hard. I swallow.
“Big talk for a man who can’t even get his own shirt off,” I tease, reaching up to undo his buttons one by one. When my hands get caught between us, frustration flares. I press against his shoulders and flip our positions, hovering over him now, staring down with desperate heat. I end up straddling him, knees bracketing his thighs, my hands tangled in his hair. He leans back, letting me take control, looking up at me with that look I used to dream about. I roll my hips against him, grinding down, and he bucks up to meet me, already hard and undone. The friction rips a gasp from my throat, breaking the kiss. Miles’s fingers flex on my hips as he stares up at me, like he can’t decide whether to take control or let me ruin him first.
“See something you like, Dalton?” I taunt, palming his face and tracing my thumb along his jaw.
He leans into my touch, eyes fluttering shut. “I want all of you,” he confesses, voice rough. “Right now.”
“Show me,” I challenge. “Show me how much you want me.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hands slide to my ass, squeezing hard, pulling me flush against him. I can feel him, thick and aching, and I rut against him without shame. He meets me every time, until the heat between us is almost unbearable. Then he moves again, flipping us so I’m pinned beneath him on the couch, his body heavy and warm, pressing me into the cushions. He kisses me deep and thorough, then trails his mouth down my throat, biting at the sensitive spot just above my shoulder.
I arch into him, gasping. “Fuck, Miles.”
“I love the way you sound when you want me,” he murmurs. “Never get tired of it.”
I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the remaining buttons, desperate to get him naked. He laughs, low and dangerous, and helps me out, shedding his flannel and undershirt in record time. He’s even better shirtless. Broad shoulders, muscular chest thickly dusted with dark hair shot through with silver, abs flexing with every shaky breath. I rake my nails down his back, savoring the heat and strength of him.
“You know you’re ridiculous, right?” I tease, letting my hands wander lazily over every inch of exposed skin. “No one should be allowed to look this good at our age.”
“Neither should you,” he fires back, grinning. He kisses me again, softer this time, almost tender. His hands rest on my hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles. For a second, everything slows. We just look at each other, catching our breath. There’s so much want in his eyes it’s almost frightening.
“I mean it, Mase,” he says, his voice shaking. “You’re everything I ever wanted. Everything.”
The casual use of the nickname he used to use, the name only Miles has ever called me, ruins me. I’m gone, done for. Any last resistance or hesitation I had about this thing between us shatters at the sound of that name and the absolute adoration in his voice. I want to make a joke, but it sticks in my throat. Instead, I pull him down and kiss him again, pouring everything I can’t say into it. Then it’s a rush. My hands scramble at his jeans, shoving them down far enough to free him. He’s thick and flushed, and I lick my lips, unable to resist. I lean down, tongue flicking over him, tasting him.
He shudders, a hand fisting in my hair. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”
“Hope so,” I whisper, then take him in, slow and deep. He lets out a broken moan, hips jerking. I find a rhythm, bobbing my head, using my mouth, and every trick I remember from years ago.
He lasts barely a minute before he’s dragging me off him, eyes wild. “You keep that up, I’m not gonna last.”
I smirk, wiping my mouth. “That’s the point.”
He shakes his head, grinning like a lunatic, and flips me so I’m sprawled across the couch, ass in the air, legs dangling over the arm. The padding bites into my hips, but I barely notice. I hear the tear of a condom wrapper, then the slick sound of lube. Fingers slide between my cheeks, circling and teasing.
“Is this what you want?” he breathes, his voice gone rough. “You want me to take you right here?”
I arch back, words gone. All I can do is nod. He pushes in a finger, then another, working me open. It burns, but I love it. I love the way he handles me, careful but relentless. I grind back onto his hand, needy. He lines up, the pressure making mywhole body tense with anticipation. There’s a beat, a question hanging between us.
“You ready?” he asks, breath hot on my neck.
“Don’t make me beg,” I growl, pushing back against him.
“You sure?” he murmurs against my shoulder, barely containing a laugh.
I arch back harder, grinding against him. “If you ask me that again, I’ll tie you to the radiator and have my way with you.”
He laughs, completely wrecked. “Promise?”
I just groan, reaching back to cup his cock in my palm, guiding him to where I want him most. He’s slick, already pressing against me, and the anticipation makes me dizzy.
He laughs again, then slides in, slow and steady. It’s a stretch, intense, right on the edge of too much, but I want it. I want every inch. The sound he makes when he bottoms out is pure filth, a guttural moan that echoes in my chest.
“God, Mase,” he groans. “You feel fucking unreal.”
I arch my back, angling for more. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”
He pulls out, then thrusts back in, finding a rhythm that’s deep and perfect. The angle is obscene, each snap of his hips hitting my prostate dead-on. I grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white, fighting the urge to come apart completely. Miles fucks me like he means it, all power and focus, like the rest of the world has narrowed down to just this. The sound of skin slapping, our mingled groans, the creak of the couch, it’s everything.
