I need to see the soul leave his body and gradually float back into him. I need to know that for those few seconds when the little death claims him, his soul belongs to me.
He settles onto his back, legs apart, and I need a moment to take stock of everything I’m seeing. I’m not dreaming. Mathias Jones is naked on my—his bed, legs open, waiting for me to fill him.
Everything about him is unapologetically perfect. He’s like a caricature of the perfect man. His abdominal muscles climb up in precise, mesmeric rows, his hair falls neatly over his forehead in a way that suggests it could easily be corrupted, his silver cross gleams against his smooth olive skin, and his cock lies fat and hard against his stomach.
Mathias doesn’t reach for it, or in any way attempt to steal friction. He simply leans back on his elbows and stares at me. I want to kiss him before I get locked into a torrent of sheer selfishness and forget how, so I lean over, lick across his mouth, demand entry. For a moment in time, our cocks slide together. His precum rubs onto my belly, and vice versa.
Just as quickly, I’m on my knees between his legs again. I roll the condom on, throw the wrapper wherever, and grab the bottle of lube, which is . . . frankly ridiculous. Laughably humongous. Two litres with a pump at the top. It’s the same size as an original bottle of Coke before the sugar tax ruined everything. I stifle my laugh.
“What? It makes financial sense to bulk-buy items that have a long shelf life,” he says, completely earnestly, and honestly, it’s shit like this that makes it so hard not to tumble head over heels for him.
“That’s the filthiest thing anyone has ever said to me in the bedroom,” I say.
It takes him a few seconds to locate the sarcasm in my comment. He rolls his eyes and laughs. “I have travel-sized bottles for on-the-go fun times.”
I’m gonna need him to stop saying things like that—stop speaking in general—or I’m done for.
I lube up and run my fingers over Mathias’s ass, grab the base of the plug and ease it out. He’s pre-lubed for me. It dribbles out onto the bedspread, and I’ve never seen anything more inviting in my life.
Like every other part of him, Mathias’s hole is perfect. It’s hairless, wet, and looks tight as fuck. I’m not going to be winning any stamina contests in there. I sink my finger in and we both moan. Mathias bucks onto my finger, fucking it.
“You are going to be the end of me,” I say. He’s so warm. I add another finger and work him open a little more.
I can’t wait any longer. I need him, need his wet heat wrapped around my cock. I line the head up to his entrance.
“Fuck me, Owen Bosley,” he says before I can ask if he’s ready.
So I do. I drive in, only an inch or two, and pause for a few seconds to catch myself before sliding all the way in. I don’t ease in, don’t do it bit by bit, don’t give him—and me—any time to brace ourselves. But I do hold it there, at the hilt.
Mathias’s mouth opens in an O, though no sound comes out.
“Oh my god. Yep. Yeah, that’s the good stuff,” I say.
He snort-laughs. “No. No more words. I need you to shut up and fuck me, Owen Bosley.”
And I mean, I try. I try to fuck him, but he feels so damn good, looks so fucking incredible, that when I speed up it’s too much. His eyes sweep my body, as though he’s trying to look at everything all at once.
I’m pistoning.
I slow my pace.
I flip flop between the two because one feels too incredible and the other is too close to lovemaking.
“You’re doing so great,” I tell him, as he brings his knees up higher, squeezing me tighter.
He preens. I’d forgotten how much he loves praise.
We’re both riding that edge, and I need to eke this out, squeeze every last millisecond from it. I lower my body to be as close to him as possible, to eliminate any gaps between us. Our mouths don’t quite line up, but I want to kiss him, so instead, I push my face into his neck. My hands are in his hair, holding it, but not pulling.
Mathias’s grunts morph into protracted whines, and he starts dropping my name in there. “Owen. Fuck, Owen. Oh my god, Owen.”
He’s usually quiet when we fuck, and I’m not reading anything into this sudden outburst. Nope, it doesn’t mean anything.
We’re not making love, and Mathias moaning my name means nothing.
I, on the other hand, have lost all capacity for words. Any sound that falls from my mouth is neither instigated through conscious effort, nor does it make any sense. “Fu—Math—shii—oh my fucking dude. No, god. Feels so—ungh!Help me.”
I want to be the one to reach between our bodies, grab Mathias’s cock, and end this. I also want this to go on all night. I want to fuck him until the sun comes up, but I’m forty-five and my back isn’t cut out for tantric sex any more.
