His body is warm. He’s so fucking warm.
My brain, at whatever percent it’s currently at, thinks:This is the peak of human existence.
I start to move.
Slow, because slow is what I have right now, because my hips are operating on a slight delay between intention and action. Long rolls, grinding down, savoring the heat and the tight grip of his ass. Every time I pull back, his hole tries to suck me back in.
“Fuck,” I say into his chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The words come out rhythmic, spaced with my hips. “You feel—how do you always feel so fucking good?”
I lift my head, and look at his face.
He looks like something designed. He looks like someone’s very specific idea of a perfect thing.
So pretty, my Kit.
I keep moving.
It’s not quiet enough, probably.
The sounds getting pulled out of me are loud and dirty, but the couple on the couch is somehow still going, and they’re loud and dirty too, so I guess it’s fine. Everyone’s on their own trip anyway.
I drop back down, press my face into the side of Kit’s neck, feeling his pulse under my lips. His pulse is fast. Really fast. He’s here, he’s present, he’s just not letting me see it. Giving me his entire body, and keeping everything else locked away.
That’s such a Kit thing to do. That’s just so classic Kit.
I get a hand between us, wrap my fingers around his leaking dick, stroking him slowly while I fuck him. My coordination is trash right now, so it’s uneven and sloppy, but I don’t think he minds. I don’t think he minds anything.
“Hell yeah! Go at it, my gay dudes.”
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body stops. I’m buried to the hilt inside Kit, and a guy—someone I’ve definitely seen in the CS department—is walking past us, nodding, throwing me a thumbs-up with genuine, baked approval before he continues on his way into the kitchen.
I stay completely still.
Kit stays completely still.
We are two frozen objects on the floor of a trap house.
I hear the guy open the fridge. Get something. Close it. The couple on the couch hasn’t looked over. The girl on the beanbag shifts, rolls, and keeps sleeping. The guy with the cup still hasn’t spilled it.
I let out a breath that takes about ten seconds to fully leave my body.
Then I start moving again. Harder this time. Faster. Deeper.
“God,” I breathe into the fabric of his hoodie. I get my teeth into it, biting down on the cloth over his shoulder. I need something to bite because the moan that wants to rip out of me is way too loud for this room—I know that now. My hips move faster. I can’t help it. The slow grind was never going to last. Not when it feels this insane.
His pulse is hammering.
I feel him shaking. A full-body tremor this time.
Perfectly still on the outside. Shaking violently on the inside. Coming all over his own stomach.
Fucking God.
It pushes me right over the edge.
I blow my load with my face pressed into his neck, my teeth buried in his hoodie, my hand around his cock and my elbow planted on the floor on the side of his head to keep from collapsing. I hear myself make a pathetic noise.
