Page 54 of 72 Hours

“God.”

It was a breathless, awed little sound, and I had to double check that it had really come from Niall. He peeled my shirt back up off my head, and I was happy to let him. When he pushed forcefully at me, I stumbled, and my legs banged back against the couch. His fingers brushed against one of my raised nipples, and I moaned aloud. “Same from me.”

“Huh?”

“Gasping like school kids. Listen to us.” He bent his head down and tightened his lips around my nipple, flicking his tongue over the tip.

I winced and bit back a sob of pleasure. “Okay, point taken. Someone doesn’t act like one.”

“Tanner, I don’t want to hold back.” He sounded—astonishingly—shy. “I don’t want this to be confused. To upset us... to anger us.”

“Never. I want this. I want you.” I was back to the begging, and I didn’t give a shit. How the fuck had I ever managed without him all this time? I’d been some kind of pale imitation of myself, an empty shell, a washed out impression.

Niall pressed up against me, and I could feel the muscles of his legs as they tightened. Better than that, I could feel the heat of his groin against the thin cloth of my shorts and the swelling insistence of his erection, hot and greedy against my thigh. I ran my hand down over his hips, tugging at skin that was too taut to grab hold of, then across his belly and down between his inner thighs. He tensed against me, and when I curled my fingers around his shifting balls, he groaned. I fondled one, sliding my palm around it, feeling its creases, the way it nudged against its partner, both of them hanging heavily in the sac. His feet shifted and he spread his legs further apart. His breath was very, very loud. His cock twitched above my knuckles, nudging its damp tip against my belly, the pubic hairs tickling between my fingers.

I ran my other hand down his back, tracing the knobs of his lower spine, running a single finger down between the crack of his buttocks. His breath hitched, and his head dropped forward on to my shoulder.

“Tanner. Oh God.”

We stood there, naked apart from my shorts, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. He had one hand at my neck and one at my waist, his fingers digging into me as if he thought I make a run for it. As if. His tongue darted out and licked at the sweat in the hollow of my throat, and he moaned softly.

I kissed at his forehead, the only part of his face I could reach, but it was enough. With one hand, I caressed the skin between his legs; with the other, I teased at his arse. When my front hand closed firmly around his swelling cock, his head snapped back up. His eyes were very bright and for a second they didn’t focus on me. But when they did, the ferocity was deep, dark and shocking. And fucking brilliant. His skin was flushed, his lips slightly parted. I stabbed at them with my tongue, and he opened up and sucked hard on me.

I started to pump his dick and his back arched, pressing his torso against me even more closely. At the same time, I slid a couple of fingers further down between his cheeks, probing for his arsehole.

“Yesss....” This time it was my moans we listened to, gasping with childlike delight. “Want you, Niall. Want to touch you, fuck you.”

My fingers found the indentation of his entrance and stroked the creases of skin around its pucker. They felt very taut, the hole closed. He felt like a treasure that hadn’t been discovered yet, and I was no fucking Indiana Jones, was I? I was suddenly, embarrassingly nervous. Three months apart was feeling like years. I nudged at him with just the tip of my digit, feeling my way. He arched more, pushing his arse out against my hand, and then my finger slid into him.

We both cried out. Shakily. Delightedly! It was a shock, but it was also a thrill beyond anticipation. For a few delicious seconds we still stood there, holding each other tightly, as I gently pumped him and thrust my finger into him in the same rhythm. Then he grunted and planted his hand on my head, tangling his fingers in my hair and tugging at the roots of it. I felt the pressure and paused. When he started to push me down, I dropped carefully to my knees in front of him.

“Please,” he whispered.

I didn’t need asking, I can tell you. I kept my hand on his arse, my finger still teasing in and out of him. I could feel the muscles opening and closing around me, his conscious effort to relax, his body acclimatising to the invasion. Had he been with anyone else since we parted? The thought had never occurred to me, despite my ridiculous accusations of him, my jealousy of him with anyone else. And I’d given him up to whoever else he wanted. Hadn’t I?

My body ached with passion and frustration. I couldn’t think of it, I couldn’t accept it, not right now. I’d be sensible later, I’d be mature later, but just now I needed him as mine again. I thrust my fingers back into him and heard his groans, as I was too hurried. I slowed and took my other hand off his cock, the thin trails of silvery pre-cum looping the space between him and my fingertips. I anchored myself by grasping his hip. His swollen cock jutted out at me, shining with blood-red flesh, quivering, demanding. I moistened my lips, then leaned forward and licked at it.

The cry that stuttered out of him was hoarse and incoherent.

I’d always loved that—sucking him off. It was a greedy pleasure of mine. I loved to feel him shudder against my tongue, loved the way he swelled even further inside my mouth, loved the way he thrust instinctively against me, fucking me in mimicry of how he’d be when he was actually inside me. I started the long, lazy sweep of my tongue from the seeping tip down to the thick base of his cock, sucking the skin back up as it strained against me, flicking the point of my tongue against the thread where it swelled out to the crown. Up and down, and then I sank my lips over him fully. He filled me; I latched on to him, licking, smoothing saliva around him to lubricate it all, pulling back up just to play with the crown. My fingers still slipped in and out of his hole though my concentration struggled to cope over the pounding in my head. My own cock was hot and heavy in my shorts, and I was sure I had one of those embarrassing wet patches at the front.

I couldn’t care less.

This was what I’d been missing. Did I really think I could forget? I ached for him. I could feel the muscles of my belly complaining, tensed as I knelt there, my groin nagging for attention. His grip tightened in my hair and his arse clenched around my fingering. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

He was close to climax. I was shocked to realise how surely I knew that. How my body still reacted to the shivers of his, how the path of his pleasure was still imprinted on my memory and nerves.

He’s mine.

“Tanner?” He tugged at my hair again and I looked up at him, my lips still busy. “This is... fuck... I can’t stop....”

I nodded to let him know I understood. His head dropped back again, his eyes rolling. Coherent speech wasn’t really an option for either of us; neither of us had full control of ourselves. I stopped the movement in and out of his arse and just concentrated on the caress of my mouth. A shudder ran the whole length of his body, and I gripped at his legs, hoping to hold him upright if they buckled. He grunted something that sounded like my name; then he tensed and became totally still. I relaxed my lips and waited. My reward came seconds after. Hot, sharp-tasting seed filled my mouth, spitting out of him in eager bursts, the thick shaft throbbing gently against my teeth. I felt my throat tighten eagerly, ready to suck it down. It puddled on my tongue, thick and sticky and as tasty as anything I’d ever had.

The pain in my groin was becoming less of an annoyance and more of an agony. I rocked gently back on my heels and let Niall’s softening cock slide out from between my lips. They felt well used and slightly numb. I opened my mouth again, a little gingerly, and let the cum trickle out into my cupped palm. The inside of my mouth felt cold again, the warmth and fullness of him no longer there. I put my free hand back to the couch to steady me and I got up on my feet.

He was swaying, and moisture shone in his eyes. His skin was gorgeously flushed, and I could still see the pale impression of my hand’s grasp on his hip. The tendons in his neck were raised; a trapped nerve in his thigh twitched instinctively.

“Shit.” His gaze came back into focus and sought me out. “Tanner,” he murmured, neither question nor statement. He gave a rueful laugh, a very gentle, awed sound. “Shit. Your mouth.”