He shakes as I brush a hand over his spine.
“Are you laughing?” I ask, annoyed that my plan has not been quite as effortlessly pornographic as I’d hoped.
“Aren’t you?” He throws an arch glance over his shoulder.
More like pouting, but now that we have some support, I pull him backward, and this time, he slides down onto me with a long, low groan.
The chair squeaks as I start to thrust. He’s heavy on top of me, and even with the wall behind us, we shift awkwardly as I try to set the kind of pace I know he likes.
“Should I—” He shifts and squirms.
“Just a second, I—”
“Are you—”
“Hold still while I—”
“Could you just—”
We both shout as the chair tips to one side. Nash puts a foot out, saving us from tumbling to the floor.
The room is silent before he shakes with muffled laughter again. I bite at his shoulder. “Shut up.”
“Sorry. I can’t help it.” His voice is louder now, even thoughnowis the time for secrecy. Anyone who walked in right this second would get an eyeful we’d all regret. I pinch him. Nash O’Hara, terror of the queer film festival circuit, is flat-out giggling in my lap. I growl and force him up. Somehow, despite all the contortions, I’ve managed to stay inside him, and slipping out now is a loss, but before I can even begin to reorganize, Nash drops to the carpet, spreading his shirt out like a blanket before he lies down on his back, knees wide.
“You’re overthinking this, Brady,” he says.
I mourn my chair vision a moment longer, but really, what’s there to overthink? He’s willing, I know what he likes. No need to make this harder than it needs to be.
His satisfied groan as I slide back into him warms me to my toes. How did this happen? Every snipe, every name he’s called me, every time he’s told me not to be a smart-ass. Was it always going to lead to this?
And what do we do now?
The air conditioning cools my skin as I thrust, watching his face intently for all the things he loves. When we hit our rhythm, the point where pleasure takes over and we’re moving with each other, his lips always turn up in the corners. I don’t even know if he knows he does it. Just this sleepy, happy, contented smile that says he has nowhere else he wants to be right now. I do that to him.
“You feel so—” I hesitate because I want to sayright,but the word feels too big somehow. “So good.”
He brushes a hand over my cheek and slips a thumb in my mouth. I run my tongue over soft skin and small calluses before I let him draw me down for a kiss.
“Brady.” His soft voice is rough. “I’m ready. Fuck me.”
The rhythm changes, moving from the easy flow to sharp thrusts as I pick up my pace. I want to wrap myself all the way around him so he can feel me, inside and out. I want him.
I love him.
The thought is so sudden and loud in my head that my hips falter, and Nash digs his nails into the small of my back, urging me on.
“Come on,” he says between clenched teeth. “Come on.”
He doesn’t know I’m suddenly living in a new reality where I’m in love with Nash O’Hara.
“Fuck me, Brady,” he grits out.
Right. First things first. Orgasms now, paradigm shifts later.
He shouts when my cock hits his prostate, and I press a hand to his mouth, trying to smother his sounds.
“You’re mine,” I say, biting at his earlobe. His hands skitter over my back as I piston into him, over and over, driving him to the edge.
