We moved toward the stairs, still kissing, still touching, shedding more clothing as we went. His belt landed on the floor. My jeans came unbuttoned.
By the time we reached the bedroom, we were mostly undressed, and the urgency was back in full force.
He pushed me onto the bed and followed me down, and the weight of him, the heat of skin on skin, made everything else fade away.
“Ten days is too long,” he said, his mouth trailing down my chest.
“I’ll be playing soon. Won’t happen again.” I arched into his touch.
“Good.”
His hands mapped familiar territory, but he felt new again after so many days apart. Like rediscovering something precious I’d been afraid I’d lost.
When he moved lower, when his mouth found me, I stopped thinking entirely. There was only this: the wet heat,the suction, his hands gripping my hips. Every muscle tensed as I fought the urge to fuck his throat. I came harder than I had in weeks, his name falling from my lips like a curse, my hands tangled in his hair.
When I could breathe again, I pulled him up and kissed him thoroughly, tasting the salty cum on his lips.
“Your turn,” I said, and he sucked in a breath.
“Marco, you don’t have to?—”
I guided him onto his knees, and positioned myself behind him, my hands firm on his hips. He glanced back at me, eyes dark with desire, and I kissed the base of his spine.
“What are you doing?” he asked, breathless.
“Something I’ve wanted to do for a while,” I said. “Is that okay?”
“Anything, yes.”
I spread his cheeks with my hands and lowered my mouth to his furled opening. When I teased his hole with my tongue, the noise he made was inhuman—a choked gasp that turned into a low moan. His head dropped to the pillow, his hands fisting in the sheets.
“Marco—putain?—”
I took my time, savoring every sound I pulled from him, every tremor that ran through his body. When I finally pulled back, he was panting, his whole body taut with need.
“Please,” he gasped. “I need you. Now.”
I pushed him onto his back and settled between his legs. I took him into my mouth slowly, relishing the weight of him on my tongue, the way he tasted. I started with shallow movements, getting used to the feel of him. His hand found my hair, not pushing, just holding on. I went deeper, using my tongue, my hand playing with his balls. When I finally swallowed his length—taking him as far as I could, feeling him hit the back of my throat—he let out a string of cursesin French. When he came, he shouted my name over and over, broken and desperate and perfect.
I pulled off and sat back on my heels, wrapping my hand around myself. A few quick strokes and I was shooting my load across his stomach with a groan.
I collapsed beside him, and we lay there catching our breath, both of us satisfied and exhausted.
“That was…” he started. “I never…”
“Yeah.”
“We should—dinner or something?—”
“Later. Just stay here for now.”
“Okay.” He grabbed a few tissues from the nightstand and cleaned his abs. Then he settled against me, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist. “This is better than dinner anyway.”
“Much better.”
We dozed for a while, cuddled around each other, the exhaustion of travel and the days of missing each other catching up with both of us.
When we woke, it was dark outside. Étienne’s stomach growled again.
