“Yeah.”
Smirking, Dylan coaxed Angelo away from the safety of the tiles and turned him around. “Fox.”
Angelo gasped out a laugh. They’d never had need to use their safe word, but they never forgot it, and Dylan’s gravelly whisper went straight to Angelo’s dick. He braced himself on the wall and dropped his head, his nerves already crying out for the assault Dylan was about to inflict on them.
And Dylan didn’t make him wait for long before he dropped to his knees again and replaced his fingers with his tongue in Angelo’s hole.
“Fuck.”
Dylan was the goddamn king of rimming, and it didn’t take long for him to turn Angelo’s limbs to jelly for all the right reasons. Angelo hung his head and gave himself over to the dizzying pleasure. Waves of sensation washed over him, and he clung desperately to the slippery tiles until he couldn’t take another swipe of Dylan’s devilish tongue.
Attuned to him as ever, Dylan rose and stepped briefly out of the shower for the bottle of lube they had stashed in every room. He moved fast, and Angelo had hardly caught his breath before Dylan was buried inside him, fucking him with short, sharp strokes.
Shower sex was always like this—quick and dirty, though it had been a while since Angelo had bottomed. Not that he was complaining. Dylan fucked like he did everything else—like a motherfucking dream—and Angelo fell to bits in two minutes flat. “I’m gonna come.”
“Do it,” Dylan ground out through clenched teeth. “I wanna feel you.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. Angelo let the pressured coil in his gut fly and came with a wild yell, spurting hot come everywhere without ever laying a hand on his dick.
“I love it when you come hands-free... you clench me so tight...fuck.” Dylan released inside Angelo, pulsing wet warmth where they were joined.
Angelo gasped and jerked forward. Alone in the shower, he would’ve fallen, but Dylan held him up, soothing him with gentle kisses until he could see straight. “Wow. If my shitty balance doesn’t break my neck one of these days, getting fucked by you will.”
“I can think of worse ways to go than in the shower with my favourite cock inside me,” Dylan quipped as his dick slipped out of Angelo, but when he turned Angelo around, his expression was earnest. “I’d never let you fall.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
They were talking about something far deeper than screwing around in the shower, and they both knew it, but Angelo’s brain was too mushy to articulate anything intelligent.
So he let Dylan lead him out of the shower and deposit him on the bed, drying them both off the way only he could without making Angelo feel like a child.
It was kind of hot too, and Angelo itched to ask Dylan to crawl back into bed and write the whole day off to fucking and napping, but the restlessness in Dylan was impossible to ignore—his jittery gaze and tapping fingers. Angelo kissed him, then lay back and reached for the remote. “Go on. I’m gonna stay here for a bit.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Only you.”
“You have me, I promise.”
Dylan pulled the covers up the bed and then left the chalet, leaving Angelo to his juddering legs and muddled thoughts. He dozed in front of shitty Christmas TV for a while, but eventually the solitude got under his skin. Over the last few months, he’d missed Dylan more than he could ever say, but he’d grown used to the constant company on the farm. Even on his bad days, laid up in this very bed, Harry, Joe, and even Emma had rarely allowed him to be alone.
When he was sure his legs had regrouped enough to hold him, he got up and dressed and ventured across the farm to the yard. Despite being up since the early hours with a rescued mare, Joe was still working, but he waved Angelo’s admittedly limited help away. “Go indoors. Jevon’s cooking something with those lava chillies he was talking about the other night.”
Given the amount of rum that had flowed since Jevon had arrived on the farm, Angelo was surprised Joe remembered but heeded his advice anyway and went inside to find Jevon in Sal’s customary place at the stove. “Where’s Rhys?”
“Truro. He was going stir crazy, so Harry and Dylan took him out.”
“Out?” Angelo had a misty memory of Dylan appearing by his bed and saying something about that. “To Truro?”
“Yup. Harry thought the city boys needed a break from the mud.”
“Fair enough.” Angelo bypassed his favourite seat at the battered table and peered over Jevon’s shoulder into his bubbling pot. “What are you making?”
“Curry goat—without the goat.”
