I cross the space between us and kiss him like I’m drowning.
His mouth opens under mine, and I lick into him—tasting bourbon and want. His hands come up to my shoulders, steadying without pushing, and the heat of his palms burns through my shirt. He lets me set the pace, lets me take what I need, and somehow that’s worse than if he’d shoved me against the wall. I don’t know what to do with gentleness. Don’t know how to receive without flipping the script to take.
He slides his hands down my back, grips my ass, pulls me tighter against him. His thigh slides between mine and the pressure against my cock makes me groan into his mouth. I’m hard—have been since somewhere in the middle of confessing things I’ve never told anyone—and I can feel him stiffening against my hip.
I bite his lower lip and he makes a sound that goes straight to my dick. When his tongue slides against mine, I suck on it, and his hips jerk forward like he can’t help himself.
“Fuck,” he breathes when we finally break apart. His lips are swollen, slick. His pupils blown wide. “Chris?—”
“Bedroom.” My voice comes out wrecked. “Now.”
We stumble down the hall without letting go of each other, mouths meeting again and again between steps. His hands find the hem of my shirt and drag it up; I lift my arms long enough for him to pull it over my head, then I’m tugging at his. We leave a trail of fabric behind us—my shirt near the bathroom door, his belt clanking against the hardwood, shoes kicked off somewhere in between.
His bedroom is closer, so we go there. He swings the door open and we’re through it, Wyatt walking backward, pulling me with him by the belt loops. The backs of his knees hit the side of the bed and he falls onto it, dragging me down on top of him in one fluid motion.
I go still.
The reflex coils through me as he spreads his legs to make room for my hips—him under me, looking up with those dark, trusting eyes. The position echoes everything I told him two days ago that I couldn’t do.
He reads my hesitation before I can speak. Scoots back on the bed, pulling me down beside him, not on top. A smooth redirect that says I heard you.
Without missing a beat, he cups the back of my neck and kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue slow against mine. I grab his waistband and shove, and he lifts his hips to let me peel his jeans down. He kicks them off while I work my own fly, and there’s a graceless moment of denim and cotton before we’re both stripped to skin.
The shock of full contact hits me—his warmth, the rough hair of his thighs against mine, the hard length of his cock pressing into my hip. I suck in a breath and he pulls me closer, hooking his leg over my hip until our cocks slide together. He wraps his hand around both of us and strokes, and the noise I make surprises me.
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I thrust into his grip and dip my head to bite his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He groans and tightens his fist. I snap my hips harder, and the slide of his cock against mine, slick with sweat and precome, sends heat coiling down my spine. Every nerve alive, everything registering exactly the way it should.
I run my hand down his back, slow, feeling the shift of muscle beneath his skin. Over the curve of his ass. He rocks into my touch when I slip my fingers between his cheeks, an involuntary roll of his hips that tells me more than words.
I raise my hand to my mouth, wet two fingers, and press them against his hole. The low, guttural sound he makes rewires something in my brain.
One finger, slow. He’s tight and hot around my knuckle, and his whole body shifts, grinding between my hand and the press of our cocks. He drops his forehead to mine, lips parted, breathing hard against my mouth.
“Chris—”
I work deeper, watching his face. The way his jaw goes slack. The way his eyes lose focus. Two fingers now, and when I curl them and brush his prostate he jerks like he’s been shocked. A strangled fuck tears out of him. He loses all coordination—his hand goes slack on our cocks, can’t stroke, can’t think, just rocks back onto my hand and gasps.
Three, and he’s gone. Bucking onto my fingers, his cock leaking against my stomach, making sounds he doesn’t know he’s making. His body is shaking, his hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to bruise. I did that. Me.
I want inside him so badly my vision blurs. I told him I couldn’t do this. But he wasn’t trembling on my fingers then, wasn’t looking at me with everything he wants written on his face and the restraint to not ask for it. And maybe that’s what convinces me—knowing this man would stop me if I went too far. Wyatt is safe. Wyatt would never let me hurt him.
Last night he owned my pleasure. Now his is mine to give.
“God, I want to be inside you.” The confession erupts out of me, muffled against his neck.
He pulls back, his eyes feverish and so desperate, trying to get a read on me. But he doesn’t beg even though I can almost hear the plea on his lips.
“Can I?”
His answer is a kiss, so deep and painfully needy. When we part, we’re both panting harder. Then he nods and rolls onto his belly, spreads for me. I start to move over him but he catches my wrist.
“Hey.” He looks at me over his shoulder, searching. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” Steadier than I feel. I don’t know if I’m okay. I just know I want my cock inside him more than I want to think about it. The bourbon and the confession and his body have burned through every guardrail I had left. And he’s earned this, just for being him.
I settle over him and rock my hips until my cock slides along his cleft. I kiss the curve of his shoulder, teeth grazing the vertebra at the base of his neck. He shivers beneath me, tilts his hips back, and I grind deeper, slick with sweat. Just friction. Just the promise of it.
