“You’re so fucking hot.” And Ben’s glorious beneath me, golden and bright even in the low light, like darkness couldn’t subdue him.
My hand teases his stiff cock through his jeans, and he’s trying—and failing—to unbutton my shirt as he gasps and squirms with pleasure beneath me.
Moving further south, I loosen his belt. I unbutton his fly and shove clothing down off his hips, revealing his hard-on. Magnificent. With a lick around the head, my mouth and hand work in unison. His back arches.
“Yeah…” I’m breathless at the sight of him like that.
“God…don’t stop…” Ben gasps.
“Oh, I won’t.”
There’s no plan to stop.
Instead, the rhythm of my hand only escalates, till he jerks and groans. His breathing is uneven.
And then I pause—not stop—long enough to yank my shirt off overhead, throwing it across the room somewhere in the vicinity of his jumper. The cold air is a shock to my skin.
Clumsily, I find my wallet in my jeans to retrieve a condom, cursing the foil in the low light and what way does this damn thing go on anyway and I shred the packet in my urgency and I figure it out in the half dark and hastily roll the condom on. Then I suck his rigid cock till he’s crying out, his fingers rough in my hair, and he shoves lube at me.
“You want me?” I breathe against his ear.
My brain threatens to start thinking about how much I told him about my family, more than I’ve told anyone else, and yet Ben still wants me, but then he’s demanding, pressing at me. And my brain fucks right off.
“God—yes—right now—”
I squirt lube in my hand. The cool liquid is abrupt, but it doesn’t matter because I’m on fire, working myself into an unbearable ache before turning my attention to teasing Ben again, pressing a finger inside, then another. And he’s so tight, so desperate as he writhes beneath me.
“More,” Ben begs while I continue to torment him.
He grabs my arse, the pain of his fingernails digging into my skin exhilarating.
“Yeah, like that.” My rough kiss is hot against his flushed skin—his cheekbone, his shoulder—and I’m turned on by how responsive he is to me. And hell, I give him more. I want to give him everything. But everything isn’t enough, not fucking enough—
And moments later, I push inside. And holy fuck, he feels incredible, warmer than I could have imagined. I thrust deep, my muscles taut. I’m a spring ready to uncoil.
His back arches sharply again. He sobs out, and I sure hope he doesn’t have housemates or that they’re not home or can’t hear us or something merciful like that.
God, he’s fucking noisy. It’s glorious how he responds to me.
“Like that?” I ride Ben, intensely aroused by his obvious pleasure, fit to burst as my balls ache with want. I clutch him.
“Ohh—”
I bite his shoulder and rock and cry and then he’s coming messily all over his belly and I follow, gasping, while he clutches at me and we collapse in a trembling, hyper-aroused jumble in each other’s arms. We’re left as nothing but a scatter of reflexes, plastered together.
Jesus.
As I come back to something closer to reality, I’m aware of several things, like the rich scent of Ben’s skin and cologne, and how the house smells of baking. A streetlamp casts light through the partially drawn curtain, bathing Ben in cool light beneath me, the fan of his hair on the pillow. The chill winter air washes over our exposed skin, and I reach for the crumple of Ben’s duvet pushed to the side in our frantic union and cover us.
When I lift my face from where it’s pressed against his skin, he kisses me rough. We taste of sex and each other, something like the denouement after an orchestral crescendo, the curtains falling with a whisper of velvet, the lights out and a deep, profound blackness before the audience demands an encore.
His arms are tight around me. He’s still shaking.
“All right?” I whisper between kisses. Quite possibly I’m shaking, too.
“More than,” Ben says.
We begin all over again, urgent and raw, fucking like our lives depend on it, till we’re damp against each other, his scent drowning me, and I want nothing else but the urgency of us together.
