"Too many clothes," I manage between kisses, between gasps for air. "You're wearing too many damn clothes."
He sits up just enough to shrug off his jacket, tossing it behind him. I hear it land on the floor. Then I'm yanking at his shirt, pulling it up, and he helps me get it over his head. And then I'm looking at his bare chest.
The broad shoulders I felt on the motorcycle. The defined muscles I glimpsed when he came out of the bathroom in that towel. But now I cansee all of it—the ridges of his stomach, the dusting of light brown hair on his chest, the way his skin is tan from working outside.
I run my hands up his sides, feeling the hot, smooth skin beneath. My palms glide over the ridges of his ribs, then lower to his stomach, tracing the taut muscles there, the way they clench and quiver under my touch. He's so fucking warm, like a furnace, and I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his breathing as I move higher, across his chest, thumbing over his nipples until they harden into tight peaks. He shivers hard, gasping out a needy little sound that shoots straight to my cock, making it twitch and swell even more in my jeans.
"Your turn," he says, and fuck, his voice is wrecked already, deeper than I've ever heard it, rough like gravel and dripping with want.
I sit up just enough for him to yank my shirt off over my head, and then we're chest to chest, skin to skin for the first time ever. The contact is electric—his hot, sweat-slicked torso pressing against mine, nipples scraping against my own—and we both groan low and filthy, the sound vibrating between us.
He shoves me back down onto the bed and crashes his mouth against mine, kissing me deeper, hungrier, his tongue thrusting in to tangle with mine in a wet, sloppy rhythm that makes my toes curl and my dick throb painfully against the confines of my zipper. I can feel him rock-hard against my thigh through his jeans, his thick cock straining, hot and insistent, and knowing I'm the one making him this desperate, this fucking aroused, has my head spinning with lust.
"Ivan." I don't even know what I'm begging for. I just need more—more of his mouth, more of his body, more of that hard length grinding against me until I lose my mind.
He shifts, settling between my legs, spreading them wide with his knees until I'm open for him. And when he rolls his hips down, pressing that rigid bulge right against my own aching cock, the friction of denim on denim, hardness rubbing hardness, sends sparks exploding behind my eyes. My balls tighten, my shaft pulses, leaking pre-cum into my boxers already.
"Fuck," I gasp, the word punched out of me like a gut hit. "Fuck, Ivan—do that again."
"Is that good?" he asks, grinding down slow and deliberate, dragging his clothed cock along mine in a torturous slide that makes me arch up off the bed. "You like my dick rubbing on yours like this?"
"So, fucking good. Don't stop. Please don't stop—keep humping me like that."
He doesn't stop. He grinds down against me, hard and slow, his hips circling just enough to make the seam of his jeans catch on my zipper, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my cock. I push up to meet him, desperate for more friction, more pressure on my throbbing cock, which is so hard now it feels like it might burst through the fabric. We find a rhythm together, our bodies thrusting in sync like we've been fucking for years, like we were built to rut against each other just like this. The rough drag of denim between us amps everything up—the heat building, the teasing barrier making me ache for skin, but fuck, it's so intense, the pressure coiling tighter in my gut, my balls drawing up as pre-cum soaks through my underwear.
I can feel every inch of his fat cock through our clothes. The pulsing heat, the unyielding hardness, the way his hips stutter and jerk when I angle my thrust just right to grind my length along his. It's not enough skin, not enough direct touch, and yet it's overwhelming.
I want to rip his jeans off, wrap my hand around that thick shaft, but I can't stop moving, can't stop humping up into him like a desperate animal, chasing the build-up that's making my whole body tremble.
"Jay." His face is buried in my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my skin, lips sucking at my pulse point until I'm moaning. "I've never—this is my first time—I don't know what—fuck, your cock feels so good against mine."
"I know. Me too." I grab his ass—firm, round cheeks flexing under my palms—and yank him harder against me, grinding my leaking dick up into his with more force, the wet spot in my jeans growing as I leak more pre-cum. "Do what feels good. Hump me harder—that's all that matters. Make us both come in our pants like this."
He moans against my throat, the sound raw and desperate, vibrating through me and making my cock twitch violently, hardening to the point of pain. His hips snap faster now, losing that smooth rhythm, turningerratic and frantic, his clothed erection slamming against mine in messy, needy thrusts that have me seeing white.
"I'm not going to last," I warn him, my control breaking as the pressure builds in my spine, my balls aching with the need to release. "If you keep grinding your cock on me like that—if you don't stop—I'm gonna come right here, soak my fucking jeans."
"I don't care." He lifts his head to look at me, eyes wild and unfocused, pupils blown wide with lust. "I don't care. I just need—I need you—I need to feel you come while I'm moving against you like this—"
He kisses me again, sloppy and frantic and desperate, all tongue fucking into my mouth, teeth clashing, gasping breaths mingling. His hips piston faster, harder, grinding his rigid cock down against mine with raw desperation, telling me he's teetering on the edge, his body trembling above me. The friction is fucking incredible, the rough denim scraping over my sensitive head through the thin layers, the heat of his throbbing length pressing mine flat, the way every thrust milks more pre-cum from me until my boxers are drenched. Pressure coils tight in my spine, in my heavy balls, my whole body locking up as I chase that peak I can't hold back.
"Ivan—" I'm right there, cock pulsing wildly, on the razor edge of exploding.
"I'm close." His voice cracks, hips stuttering. "Jay, I'm so close—I can't—fuck, your dick's gonna make me blow—"
"Fuck, me too—come with me, Ivan—"
He grinds down hard, once, twice, three times, his body shuddering violently against mine, hips jerking out of control as he loses it completely. He's coming, I realize. His cock throbbing against mine through the fabric, hot spurts soaking his jeans as he unloads with a broken, desperate moan of my name: "Jay, oh god, Jay—fuck, I'm coming so hard—"
That sound, that feeling of his pulsing release against me, shoves me over the edge. I come harder than I ever have in my life, my cock erupting in thick cum that floods my boxers and seeps through my jeans. My vision whites out, body going rigid, hands digging into his ass aspleasure rips me apart, almost painful in its intensity, my dick twitching and spurting until I'm spent and shaking.
We lie there afterward, breathing hard, sweaty and sticky and tangled together in the aftermath. I can feel the cooling mess in my jeans but I couldn't give a shit. All that matters is Ivan heavy on top of me, his weight perfect and grounding, his spent cock still half-hard against my thigh, and I never want him to move.
Eventually, after our breathing evens out, after the room stops spinning, Ivan lifts his head. His hair's a wild mess, lips swollen and red from our brutal kisses. He's looking at me with a dazed, almost drunk expression that makes me want to laugh with pure, fucked-out joy.
"So," he says. "I'm not exactly sure what gay men are supposed to do when they have sex, but I'm pretty sure they usually take their clothes off first and don't just hump each other until they cream their pants like teenagers."
I laugh, the sound bubbling up from my chest. "Usually, yeah. That's typically how it goes. Or so I've heard."
