I have no doubt this is the first time he’s ever had a man’s hands on him. And just like our first kiss, maybe this is the first time he’s had any fingers wrap around his dick. The thought makes me salivate and tremble.
I watch him carefully, going slow as I ease toward him, waiting for his permission, his certainty. When he clasps his bottom lip between his teeth and nods, I lap at the bead of precum and groan as a heavy gasp spills out of his parted lips.
The taste of him hits me in pieces: salt caught on heat; a brightness that flames across my tongue and makes me dizzy; something like copper and summer and the edge of a storm. It’s messy and immediate, and I’m immediately not myself. My body lurches closer as if an animalistic part of me has finally been allowed to run. For a heartbeat, I think I should pull back, inhale air, regroup. But the moment I try to be sensible, a need deeper than sense drags me forward again. I want more. More heat, more shiver, more of the way his breath fractures above me like lightning splitting the sky.
I suck deeply and pump my hand over the root of his cock. Hollowing my cheeks, I focus on making him feel good, determined to make this count. No promises means this may be the only time I get to be here. Fuck… the thought makes me take him deeper. I want everything. This needs to be just the beginning.
His fingers tighten. The sound he makes—God, the sound—pulls straight through my chest, a thread I didn’t know he’d knotted there. His other hand finds my shoulder, misses, finds it again, gripping like I’m the only stable thing in the room. He’s shaking. I feel it travel into me, a tuned resonance. His composure is a rope slipping through his hands, and every inch that falls makes me thirstier.
I’m not careful. The truth is, I don’t want careful. I want the breaking point, the place where he stops choosing between fear and hunger and simply reaches. I want the rush of him, the heat, the sharp, impossible sweetness of being allowed. Every breath he lets out tastes like victory and penance and possibility all at once, and I drink it like I might never be given water again.
“God,” he says, voice wrecked. “Rafe.” It’s different now. There’s a crushed reverence in it I’ve never dared dream I’d get to hear from him. He’s not saying my name to slow me. He’ssaying it like he’s realizing something about himself that will not be left unsaid, not after tonight.
I close my eyes and let the world funnel down to the pressure of his hand, the scrape of fabric, the pulse beating so hard in my neck it hurts. My own need spikes, cock turning to steel with nowhere to go. I’m torn between worshipping him—slowly, with the devotion I’ve been hoarding—and devouring him, consuming him.
He’s losing his grip on control. I can hear it in the way his breath goes ragged, see it in the tilt of his head as it falls back, the line of his throat bared like a white flag. His hips edge forward without his permission, cock hitting the back of my throat. I relax it, swallowing him down, loving the weight of his dick on my tongue. He jerks again and stills, and then the instinct takes over again and he follows the gravity of us both. The hand on me tightens—a plea, a wordlessplease don’t stopbraided withI can’t stand itanddon’t let me go.
The plea could undo me.
It does.
I make a noise—I don’t know what it is, not quite a word—and it seems to unravel something in him. He’s pure sound and heat and breath and want. The carefulness is gone. In its place is something wild, and it burns so brightly, I can’t look away.
I ease off but continue to jack him off. Immediately his gaze snaps to mine.
“Tell me,” I whisper, because I need it—not instruction, not choreography: confession. “Tell me you want this.” My voice is barely there, paper-thin with need. I want to carry the words out of this room like a torch against any door he tries to hide behind later.
He drags in air like it hurts. For a moment, I think he’ll drop his hand, step back, say the lines he’s no doubt spent his life practicing.
He doesn’t. His fingers flex. “I—” He stalls, jaw working, the first crack widening. “I didn’t think—” That shakes apart. “I want—” The last words break open on a groan. “I want you.”
It’s not eloquent. It’s better. It’s true.
The room contracts to touch and breath. Everything else—the lamplight, the crooked picture frame, the hum of the AC—is stage dressing for a scene that will define the rest of my life. He just doesn’t know it yet. It’s absurd to think that and somehow exactly right. I’m kneeling at the axis of my own history.
I ease off, then press deep; I hover, then take him as far into my throat as I can. I pause just to feel him tremble, to learn the contours of his surrender like a map I will memorize and trace on lonely nights. The taste doesn’t soften. It intensifies—salt and warmth and the bright edge that makes my throat tighten. It’s him, condensed. I want to live here, in this flavor, this heat, this proof.
Ollie’s sounds—Christ, his sounds—spin into a raw music. Half-caught breaths, a torn-off curse, my name as if it’s a prayer.
“Look at me,” he says suddenly, voice shattered but urgent.
I do. I tip my head, look up from the floor with my hands still anchoring him, and meet his eyes. It feels impossible, obscene, fucking everything. His pupils swallow color; his mouth is parted; his breathing is wreckage. There’s terror there, yes, but there’s also astonishment, and awe, and a kind of fierce joy that makes my bones hum.
“Don’t stop,” he says, and it’s barely sound. It’s a tremor, a quake, a collapsed building of a sentence.
“I won’t,” I tell him, and it’s a promise I shouldn’t give so freely.
The heat climbs, and I crest with him, body tuned to his, desperate for every flicker of connection. Cum bursts into my mouth, hot spurts I gulp down greedily. I continue to suck and lap, refusing to let a drop go to waste.
My own control splinters—sudden, overwhelming, the kind of release I haven’t felt since I was a teenager fumbling with firsts and too much porn on a borrowed laptop. It rips through me untouched, shocking in its force, and all I can do is ride it out, breathless, shaking.
When the storm quiets, we’re both left ruined in different ways. His hand stays in my hair, steady now, and I let my forehead rest against his thigh while the room slowly returns to itself. My pulse still stutters; his chest still rises and falls like he’s learning how to breathe again.
When I finally look up, he doesn’t flinch from my gaze. He looks undone and almost unafraid of being seen that way. His eyes shine with something I’ve never seen directed at me before—astonishment, reverence, something dangerously close to wonder.
Ollie’s smile is small, cracked at the edges, but it takes over his whole face. “That was—” He shakes his head, wide-eyed, words failing him.
And despite the exhaustion of my own body, all I want is to pull him close, let him rest against me, and hold on to the impossible truth that we just crossed a line neither of us can walk back from.
