Yes, Beckett was driving his tongue deep into Jack’s mouth but Jack returned the favour even as he dropped his free hand to Beckett’s arse, hauling Beckett’s body against his and rolling his hips up with a sensuous, powerful flex of his spine.
Beckett spread his knees and dug them into the mattress, rocking his hips down with equal power.
It was all-consuming.
He liked rubbing off against someone as much as the next person. This wasn’t rubbing off. Or, it wasn’t just rubbing off.
His entire body was sensitised. He couldn’t get enough. Jack kissed him and kissed him as they worked their bodies together.
Kissing was fine. Kissing was good. Beckett was good at it. Usually. Now, he was a panting, gasping mess. He whined low at the back of his throat, and that was what broke through the daze.
He snatched his mouth away and shoved back and up to his knees, straddling Jack. Glaring, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.
Whining was not a thing he did.
Jack stretched beneath him lazily. Their breathing was harsh and loud in the room. No. That was Beckett’s breathing. He was indignant all over again when he realised he was the only one making the noise. Jack’s face was flushed but his chest rose and fell evenly and his body was utterly relaxed.
Beckett, meanwhile, was as riled up and prickly as a hedgepig. He was rigid and trembling and furious.
“It’s all right,” Jack said. “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think it means anything.”
Beckett grunted and rocked on top of him. He’d meant to shove the man down into the mattress, to remind him that he was being straddled, that he was on the bottom. Only Jack set his hands on Beckett’s hips, encouraging the rock, and Beckett did it twice more before he realised he was sitting on the man’s dick, not rubbing his own against it.
“Is it that you don’t like kissing?” Jack said curiously when Beckett smacked his hands off his hips and slid abruptly backwards. He took hold of Jack’s shaft and gave it a rough tug. Jack hissed through his teeth, arching his neck. He didn’t look away from Beckett.
“Kissing? It’s all right,” Beckett said with a nonchalant shrug.
“You’re good at it.”
“Thanks.”
“Love the way you yield for me.Ah.”
Beckett tugged harder.
“Mhm,” Jack said, curling up into the pain rather than away. “Such a sweet mouth you have. Soft and gentle. Letting me take?—”
“Fucking…I’ll show you who’s takin’…” He leaned down, braced his hands either of Jack’s head and ducked down, pressing his lips to that infuriating smile. He bit at Jack’s mouth over and over.
Who was taking it now, huh? Who was yielding?
Jack, that’s who.
Beckett slowed his punishing kisses down to gentle brushes over those hot, damp lips. He coaxed them open and glided his tongue in and out lazily, the way he wanted to glide his cock into this man’s body.
The way he knew, deep down, he never would.
The kisses slowed, heated, deepened, until he sighed and blinked up into the wicked black eyes now above his, and tensed. “Godsdammit.”
“Ah-ah.” Jack had Beckett’s wrists pinned either side of his head. That wasn’t what kept him immobile. It was the knee tucked between his thighs and pressing into his heavy, swollen balls that did it. “That’s more like it.”
Beckett glared.
“You,” Jack told him, “are about a thousand times more perfect than I even dreamed you’d be.”
Beckett’s face stung with heat and he made a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat.
“Oh, you don’t like compliments atall, do you?”
