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He does without hesitation, groaning into another kiss more perfect than the last. I want to see that mindless passion in his movements again, so I’m not alone in the storm that’s brewing inside me.
Grabbing his waist, I tug him to me so we’re connected again. Visions of our restroom encounter assault me, nagging at me to revisit that fated moment. I start working the button of his jeans open, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the salty skin of his neck to catch my breath. Air hits my skin, and I feel my shirt bunching up underneath my arms.
I’ve always undressed myself and folded my clothes, but I let it slide, raising one arm and then the other. It’s a precarious momentum of give and take that I’m in awe of. When he reaches for my fly, though, I stop him.
“No. Your shirt now,” I correct, unzipping his pants.
He starts working on his buttons as I slip my fingers inside his denim. The fabric of his boxer briefs is soft and warm. I can feel his arousal. I can see the bulge tenting the blue fabric, but it’s not enough. I want all the proof of what I rouse in him.
Reaching underneath the elastic, my fingers connect with hot, silky flesh. I’m touching a cock. While that’s monumental in the scope of my life experiences, the fact that it’s his and I get to hold it smothers monumental with a sense of good fortune. No man has ever held what’s in my hand.
He gasps, his hands pausing on the shirt button near his stomach. Eyes closed, his head drops forward onto my shoulder, and he exhales like my mere touch is sensory overload, so I do what my new instincts beg me to do. I squeeze.
His fingers dig into the bare flesh on my back. “P-Pete…please,” he pants, jerking his hips forward into my grip.
That please goes right to my nuts. My head falls to the side against his. I breathe in the moment, savoring it. And then I oblige. He groans in my ear.
The sound of threads snapping shatters the silence as I grab his shirt lapels and tear it open, tugging the sleeves down his arms in one jerky movement. Skin to skin. Chest to chest. His nipples rake across my flesh, mine across his. The way his arms encircle me as we kiss feels like he’s practiced it a thousand times before. It’s effortless and natural, like it should have happened a thousand times before. Us. This.
I topple forward, searching for more. We land with a soft bounce on my mattress. Moving to my jaw, his mouth and hands work frantically, continuing over the rest of my skin that he can reach.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers between little kisses that light up every hair follicle on my body. “You’re so freaking perfect.”
I’m not. I never have been. I never will be, but he makes me feel like I am and could be.
“Take my cock out, Cameron.”
He wastes no time unbuttoning my pants. His lips press just below my ear and breathe, “Cam.”
“What?”
“Cam,” he repeats, hesitantly, even as his fingers slip inside my boxers and steal my breath.
I’ve been granted his nickname and his body. Rubbing the pad of my thumb over his tip, I feel him leaking. It shouldn’t surprise me, since I’m a man, and I know it can happen. Knowing it’s because of me, though, someone who’s never been known to instill wild arousal in anyone, makes it a humbling surprise. I circle the domed head again and watch the way his pulse flickers in his neck, captivated by it. Cam.
“Take me out, Cam.”
He leverages my waistband down and draws out my aching length. The cool air kisses my skin, but our bodies reclaim heat when hot flesh presses against hot flesh, our cocks meeting in between us. The sensation is new and different, but our breathing tells me I’m not alone at the top of this rollercoaster. I imagine the look of wonder in his eyes is a reflection of my own.
His hips buck into mine. A charge of static zings from my cock down to my legs, erasing any uncertainty about what I should do next. I buck back against him, devouring every sound from his mouth, silencing every anguished noise from mine. His fingers dig into my ass like he’s afraid I’ll stop. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
My stomach is slick. Whether it’s from him or me seems inconsequential. There’s going to be a Cameron imprint in it by the time we’re done. If I’m too heavy, he doesn’t seem to care about complaining.
Our bodies battle awkwardly, creating a delicious friction that makes me wonder how other-worldly it would feel if we were more practiced at this. His head arches back, and the long, drawn-out groan he lets out precedes a burst of hot liquid against my stomach.
He came first. Again. The fact he couldn't hold it together any longer stokes a triumph in me that has my nuts bursting, adding to the pool of hot stickiness between us as I cry out.
My body is quivering, although I barely exerted myself. I could collapse here, smothering him, breathing in his scent, but I know I have to move. Once I catch my breath, I lift my forehead from his and roll onto my back. We lay in the cacophony of our spent breaths, the unknown future cruelly starting to seep back in.
We essentially just had a cock battle. Is that even a sexual practice? Now what do I do?
The back of his hand is pressed up against my pinky on the mattress between us. I have the strongest urge to brush my finger over his. He said he wants to hold hands but didn’t specifically say he wants to hold mine. I’m just the means to an end. I need to remember that. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to hold my hand if he knew I wasn’t the man he thinks I am. How did I end up so badly wanting to be?
This has gone too far. I would have fucked him if he asked, and maybe even if he didn’t ask. Knowing the way he reacts, he probably would have let me. Then where would we be?
I never felt like sex equated to intimacy or attachment, but something tells me the farther I go with Cameron… Cam, the harder it would be to stop. He’s like a fog that’s settled over my world, blanketing out the sight of anything else.
Forcing the confusing possessiveness from my mind, I try to focus on who he thinks I am. A sexual guide. I wasn’t a very good one the way I practically attacked him and just rubbed our dicks together.
