Atticus met his stare, fascinated by the sparkle in Carson’s blue-gray eyes. “Okay.”
The drive to Carson’s house took less time with Atticus following him. He wasn’t sure that was necessarily a good thing. The closer they got to the little white house with the black shutters, the more nervous Atticus became. He wasn’t sure what he had to feel anxious about. He knew what was going to happen, and he welcomed it.
Or he wanted to welcome it, but now he wasn’t so sure. Twice now, someone had used the word squirrelly to describe Carson. What the fuck did that even mean? Was it some sort of twisted euphemism? Like Carson liked to play with nuts?
Although he didn’t know what Luca’s definition of squirrelly was, he got the feeling it had to do with his inability to stay in one place for long. Meaning Atticus would likely wake up tomorrow and find himself kicked to the curb.
But hell, if that was the case, he had nothing to worry about. He wasn’t looking to settle down. He wanted to get laid. And right now, he was so damn horny he couldn’t worry about the consequences.
He parked his truck behind Carson’s big white van—obviously, something he drove for work—and got out, walking toward the door as though he was filled with purpose and not wild chaos. Anticipation, at least in this case, was not his friend.
Atticus tried to play it cool as he walked up to the house. He looked around, noticing that the neighborhood was quiet. No nosy neighbors watching him go inside. Didn’t mean there weren’t any peering out the windows, and he would almost bet money someone was because the back of his neck itched like he was being watched.
“You want somethin’ to drink?” Carson offered as he closed the door behind Atticus.
“No, I’m—”
He didn’t even get the word out before Carson had him pinned up against the wall. Carson kissed him like he was starving, and Atticus was the main course. And just like that, the events of the night faded away, and he wasn’t worried about creepy neighbors or drug addicts looking for their fix. His entire world zeroed in on the man kissing him and the heat that exploded in his veins from the proximity.
“I don’t know what it is about you,” Carson mumbled against his lips. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about you.”
Atticus knew how he felt. The same affliction plagued him. Keeping his distance these past few days had been hell, but he refused to let Carson know how eager he was. How desperate he felt when he thought about Carson kissing him like this.
Carson’s hands slipped beneath Atticus’s T-shirt, pushing the cotton higher and higher before finally pulling back to drag it off him.
“I want you naked,” Carson said, his gaze hot as it raked over his chest.
Atticus knew he wasn’t much to look at. He wasn’t tall like Reese. He wasn’t muscular like Brantley or Slade. And he wasn’t lean and sculpted like Luca. He was skinny, more so than he probably should’ve been. The only difference between now and when he was a scrawny kid was the fact he was no longer pasty white. But that was about it.
“What’s this from?” Carson asked, his thumb brushing along the four-inch scar on the lower right side of his abdomen.
“Appendectomy,” he said, closing his eyes and letting the sensation take over. He didn’t want to talk about how his appendix had ruptured when he was eleven or that he’d spent nearly a month in the hospital because of an infection that had nearly killed him.
When Carson’s hands fell away, Atticus opened his eyes, watching as Carson reached behind his head and grabbed a fistful of his shirt before dragging it off.
Atticus’s breath caught in his lungs when Carson revealed his ripped physique. He was all lean muscle, every inch defined. He was tanned from apparent time in the sun, his skin sleek and smooth. The muscles on his abdomen were distinctly sculpted, forming a perfect six-pack. The corded muscle along his hips angled downward, forming a V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. He was the kind of guy Atticus fantasized about fucking. The kind he wanted to spend hours exploring with his tongue.
Carson moved in again, pressing their chests together, sending sparks dancing under Atticus’s skin.
“This…” Carson nipped his lower lip. “This is what I’ve wanted. To be skin to skin with you.”
Their lips melded again, tongues gliding as Carson freed the button on Atticus’s jeans. He gasped when Carson’s knuckles rubbed against his dick as he dragged the zipper down.
“I’m gonna worship you, Atticus,” Carson whispered, his lips brushing his chin before caressing his neck. “I’m gonna worship every fuckin’ inch before I fuck you.”
Carson pinned his hands to the wall above his head, then kissed his way down his arm, starting at his elbow. Lower, lower. He paused near his armpit, nipping the delicate skin before moving on, shifting over so he could bite Atticus’s nipple.
“Oh, fuck.” He pressed himself into the wall, letting the pleasure consume him.
It was evident Carson was taking cues from him because he pinched Atticus’s other nipple as he lowered himself to his knees. He grunted, his cock kicking hard from the flare of pain.
Staring down at the man, Atticus gasped for breath as he watched everything play out. The way Carson pushed his jeans down his legs, the way his big fingers circled Atticus’s cock.
“I was right,” Carson said. “You do have a beautiful cock.”
This man was going to kill him with his commentary. Atticus wasn’t used to so much conversation. Hell, most of his encounters had been over at this point. Slam, bam, thank you, man. There was never much foreplay, certainly nothing like this.
Carson’s gaze lifted as he licked the head of Atticus’s dick. Atticus watched in fascination as the man took him to the root, swirling his tongue around the head before pulling back. He did it again and again until Atticus was lightheaded from pleasure. All the while, Carson stripped Atticus’s clothes off, leaving them in a pile by the door.
