The lights are off downstairs at The Little Thatch. Everyone’s gone home, and I almost never see cars driving past after kick-out time. Still, it’s exposed as fuck and no doubt illegal, and if anyone were to walk by now, they’d have one hell of an eyeful. But it’s so desperately hot. I’m rock hard and leaking everywhere.
It’ll be over in seconds unless I take this slowly. I haven’t yet figured out where I’m going to come—I don’t want to mess up the windows—but none of that matters as I grip my cock and start to stroke it. The blissful release of tension has me moaning into the empty room, closing my eyes, steadying myself against the window frame with my other hand.
Owen palms the front of his jeans and my heartbeat falters. Is he going to join me? He’s so close to his window the glass is fogging under his breath. Hestarts to unbutton his belt . . . but then he stops, frowns, shakes his head. And shit, shit, shit, I’ve taken this too far.
It was my idea to wank in the showers, and my idea to wank in front of him now, and I’m suddenly realising I might be a pervert.
Okay, there’s no might about it. I’m a fully fledged, certifiable pervert.
I stop my motions, pull my pants and trousers back up, and when I look over at Owen’s window, he’s not there.
Fifteen seconds later, he’s running out of the pub’s side entrance . . . literally running across the road. Great, I’m about to get a bollocking as well as being utterly humiliated. Through all my own doing this time—even worse. It did not play out this way in my mind earlier.
Damn, I thought I did a pretty thorough risk assessment.
Owen bangs on my front door. He forgoes his usual knocker tune in favour of striking the wood three times with his fist.
I gather up my T-shirt and go downstairs to meet him.
“Mathias.” He’s out of breath, his chest heaving, face red and blotchy—no doubt from anger, but he still looks fucking delicious. “I can’t . . .”
“I’m sorry, I thought, fuck—”
“No.” He silences me by smashing his lips against mine, knocking the T-shirt out of my hand, and plunging his tongue into my mouth. Then just as ferociously, he pulls away. “I can’t be over there and just . . . watch, and not . . . I need . . .” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “I need to touch you. I need to fucking taste you.”
And then Owen drops to his knees. “Damn, I have been wanting to do this for so long.”
23
Sunday 13th April 2025
Mathias
Owen hooks his thumbs inside my waistband at both hips and gazes up at me—hazel eyes with blown-wide pupils, and pink cheeks. “Is this okay?”
“That’s a really stupid question,” I reply, and immediately worry I’ve offended him. “Of course it’s okay.”
“Good,” he whispers, and wiggles my sweatpants and underpants down.
And then all I know, all I feel and see and sense, is the wet warmth of his mouth on me. I guess Owen is not the type of guy to play with his food beforehe eats it.
Like white noise, the sensation cancels out everything else. I’m aware that we’re on the top step of my new house and Owen’s old home, framed in the doorway, bay trees on either side of me. I’m aware that anyone could drive past us right now. Anyone. It’s the only road in and out of Mudford-upon-Hooke. I’m aware that sometimes people take their dogs for late-night walks in the fields surrounding these two lonely buildings, and the front step of Fernbank Cottage is fully visible from the street.
But I also cannot seem to locate any fucks to give. Owen Bosley has my cock in his mouth, and nothing else matters. If anyone decides to go for a midnight stroll right now, well, I guess they’re in for a show. The porch is our stage, the motion-activated security light our super trooper, and Owen is the puppet master.
He’s gentle at first, testing out my size, my preferences, and alternates between sucking and flicking his tongue over the head. It’s already too much. Everything is too much, and I’m ready to fold.
Owen doesn’t have much hair for me to thread my fingers through, so I hold on to the back of his head with one hand, and use my other arm as a gag, biting down on my forearm to stop myself from crying out and attracting attention. It’s not working. I’m usually pretty quiet in the bedroom, but Owen has me making all manner of moans and whimpers.
He pulls off me, glances up. His cheeks are pink, mouth wet. “Fuck my face,” he asks. No, not asks . . . commands. “Use me. I want to choke on your cock. I want to not be able to breathe.”
“Okay, but . . .” I begin, using the pause to catch my breath. “I won’t last long.”
“Good. I like knowing I do this to you. I need to know that you can’t control yourself around me.” Owen guides my hands from where I’m using them to brace myself against the doorjamb to either side of his face. “Not just yet, Wild Card,” he pants, and jiggles his belt open, unbuttons and unzips his jeans, and reaches in to free his cock.
He pumps his fist achingly slowly and his eyes roll closed. “Ready?” he asks. I nod, and he swallows down my cock until I’m nudging the back of his throat.
Owen gazes up at me, locking his hazel eyes onto mine. He gives me a look that only has one meaning . . .“Go. Move. Fuck my face. Cut off my air supply.”
