Our lips met as I pushed forward, slow and deliberate. The head of my cock slipped past his rim, easing through the first ring of muscle until I was seated inside him. His body clenched around me, tight and hot, gripping me like he didn’t want to let go. I bit my lip hard, fighting the urge to come before I was even fully buried.
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed. “You’re so fucking tight.”
“Sorry,” Bodhi chuckled.
“Don’t laugh,” I whined. “That makes it harder.”
“Isn’t that the point?” he grinned.
The way his muscles rippled around me made my hips jerk forward. Bodhi moaned, tightening his grip in my hair. I welcomed the sting, the sharp pull grounding me just enough to keep me from tipping over the edge too soon.
“I—um...” I swallowed. “I haven’t done this a lot. So it might not be... perfect.”
Bodhi wrapped his legs around my waist, drawing me closer. He brushed some hair back from my face and smiled, soft and steady, clashing with the hunger in his eyes.
“Anything with you is perfect,” he murmured.
I pulled back until only the tip remained inside him, then thrust forward again. Bodhi grunted, breath punched from his lungs. I repeated the motion, finding a rhythm, each thrust smoother than the last. His hands slid down my back and settled on my ass, squeezing.
“So good, baby,” he breathed.
When I rose onto my knees, his legs fell back onto the bed. I gripped his hips tightly, and the new angle shifted the trajectory of my cock inside him. Judging by the way his body spasmed on my next thrust, it took me straight to his prostate.
Sweat beaded and ran down my neck, my chest, my back. Strands of hair clung to my nape and temples, and my skin felt tight, overheated, stretched thin over bone as I edged closer and closer to release.
Bodhi arched beneath me, moving with my quickening thrusts, and every smack of my hips against his ass seemed to hit exactly where he needed it. His head thrashed from side to side, dark hair wild, his face and torso slick with sweat. I leaned forward and dragged my tongue up his neck, tasting salt and skin. The air was thick with sandalwood and sex. He was warm everywhere, inside and out.
I was surrounded by him. Drowning in everything that made Bodhi who he was. Hypnotised by the sound of his moans, by the way his brows knit together as pleasure tore through him.
His hand slipped between us to grip his cock, and I slapped it away. I wanted to be the one to push him over the edge, to make him break the way he always broke me. I wrapped my fingers around his length instead, feeling it twitch in my palm. Precum streamed steadily down his shaft, slicking my grip as I stroked him in time with my thrusts.
“I’m—fuck—I’m so close,” he whined, hips rolling to match mine. “Just—yes—just a bit—ugh—more... Iggy!”
His orgasm seemed to tear through him without warning. Ropes of cum spilled over his stomach, painting white streaks across pale skin and dark ink. The sight shattered my rhythm, the tension in my spine snapping all at once. I thrust twice more before my own release hit, filling the condom as everything went white.
I collapsed onto him before I’d even finished coming, aftershocks ripping through me hard enough to make my muscles spasm. Bodhi wrapped his arms around me and kissed my head. His cum smeared between us, mixing with sweat, gluing us together.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay right here, wrapped in his warmth, pressed into the place where everything felt safe and whole. But even through the haze of our shared euphoria, I could feel it. A clock ticking somewhere. Minutes bleeding away until reality came crashing back in, dragging me from his arms for three long months.
I couldn’t avoid it. I needed to do this. Needed to get better. I couldn’t put Bodhi through what I’d done last night again. Couldn’t put myself through it either.
Marc might’ve been a twat, but he’d been right about one thing. I needed to grow up. And now that I’d found Bodhi, I’d found someone worth choosing over the drugs.
It would just take a little longer to believe I was worth that choice too.
Munich Airport was busy. People rushed back and forth to catch flights, browsed last-minute souvenirs in duty free, drank one final German beer at the bar. Passersby slowed or stopped as the band, Clara, and I made our way towards the gates. Some recognised Noctis immediately, snapping photos and squealing the boys’ names. Others didn’t know who they were, only that they must be important, judging by the security escort threading us through the crowds.
What surprised me most was how tightly Bodhi held my hand as we walked. He didn’t flinch, didn’t loosen his grip, didn’t seem to care who might speculate. Who might wonder who the pink-haired, femme boy strolling at his side was.
“Why should I care what people think?” he’d said when I asked him about it, like the answer was obvious. “I love you. Of course I’m going to hold your hand.”
We were waiting in one of the first-class lounges when a robotic voice announced that my flight to London was ready to board, and the realisation hit me all at once. This was it. My time with Bodhi was up, and this might be the very last time I ever saw him.
Panic clawed at my chest, my palms slick with sweat. Moments ago I’d been breathing normally, like any other human being. Now it felt impossible to draw a full breath at all.
Clara stood and retrieved both our passports and boarding passes from her bag. I was grateful she’d insisted on holding onto them. Left to my own devices, I might’ve flushed them down a toilet in a burst of manic desperation. Or handed them to a stranger and asked them to steal my identity.
