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It’s a convoluted compliment that doesn’t do justice to what I feel inside, but his lips cover mine. The sound he lets loose into my mouth as he devours mine is nothing short of a pained groan. Like the ebbing of a tide, his hips begin to undulate in a slow rhythm. It’s far less urgent than I assume he feels, judging by how hard he still is inside of me. He’s said ‘fuck’ several times tonight. I might be inexperienced, but he’s not fucking me now. He’s making love to me.
Slipping my hand behind his head and into his hair, I open up a place inside me I didn’t even know existed. Maybe I kept it locked up tight to protect myself from the threat of it never being filled by my family. I couldn’t feel empty if its doors were secured shut. Right now, though, it's like I’ve let a river in. Each worshipful kiss Pete gives me, each careful delve he makes into my body, each gentle caress of my chest, my stomach, or my cheek—I stow it all away into that secret place, accepting it with open arms. My heart is full. So damn full.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you.” A tear that I can’t stop tracks down my face as the tortuous wonder comes to a head again in my balls.
“Cameron,” he croaks, his widened eyes boring into mine. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t understand why I’m thanking him or if he’s getting choked up, too. His hips falter, though, and I swear he’s gotten even harder inside of me. I feel it then. I don’t have to have done this before to know he’s coming now.
The pulse, the billow of his fluids inflating the end of the condom inside of me, kisses my prostate with extra pressure, sending me back over the cliff with him. I have no energy. It shouldn’t even be possible, but I’m coming again, draining every cell in my body.
It’s like floating away and leaving my body. The thought of Pete and me flying high above the world where no one can touch us has me smiling. I can’t even open my eyes, but happiness must be enough fuel for the muscles around my mouth.
His ragged breath against the top of my shoulder is lulling me to sleep. I don’t want to move from this cocoon of peace, but after a few moments, he slowly peels his body away from mine. He slips out from inside of me, leaving an emptiness that isn’t the cruel hollow sensation I feel after pleasuring myself. It’s rather a sensation of being purged, as though it’s a promise that life will be new and shiny from now on.
Glancing down at the mirror, it’s an abstract palette of my arousal. I catch Pete looking at his glistening hand, full of my fluids. For a man who has to sing the Birthday song twice when he washes his hands, I don’t imagine a hand full of jizz is in his comfort zone. The last thing I want is to gross him out.
“I’ll clean this up,” I offer, stepping away from the mirror, but my legs almost give out, and I stagger.
He catches my arm with his dry hand, giving me a once over like he’s checking if I’m still intact. “No, I can do it. You take the bathroom first,” he offers, tilting his chin toward the open door.
I don’t know how to feel about a man cleaning up my mess. Is that common? It seems rude to make someone else erase the evidence of what I created, but I nod at his insistence. My legs lose some of their wobble by the time I reach the bathroom sink. Grabbing a washcloth, I wet it and start to wipe the sensitive place between my cheeks, grateful now that Pete is preoccupied. Washing your ass in front of someone probably isn’t sexy.
The sight of him lumbering toward the bathroom in all his naked glory, however, has my drained body wanting to wake up again. Dark, sweat-dampened curls are plastered to his chest and his naval. Broad, bare shoulders that look like they won’t fit through the door frame. Beefy thighs. The definition of his hips. And the predatory look in his eyes framed by his sex-tousled hair. Could he be any more of a dream?
Shaking myself from gawking, I hang my cloth over the side of the tub and flash him a smile. Sidestepping him awkwardly, I pause when he slides his hand up my hip.
What now? What happens now?
Holding my breath, I try not to blush at the soft feel of his lips on my cheek as he gives me a peck before he moves to the sink. I don’t know why, but that innocent gesture makes me feel like I’ve been demoted to a juvenile status in his eyes again like I’m some fragile being, not a man who just took a cock twice against a mirror.
He didn’t seem to want to hang out for very long after that last two times we messed around. That thought makes the itch for something to occupy myself with an easy decision. Grabbing up my boxer briefs in the bedroom, I slide them up my legs, enjoying each throb of soreness as I move. How long will that feeling last? I don’t ever want it to go away.
When I reach for my jeans, a deep voice cuts through the silence. “Are you leaving?”
I don’t understand why he looks surprised. Of course, I don’t want to leave, but I’m not about to be a clingy pest after the most perfect evening of my life.
“You…always ask me to leave,” I stammer when I realize I’m just staring at him. “Which is fine,” I add in a rush. “I just figured I’d make it less awkward for you, so you don’t have to ask this time.”
He’s frowning. Why is he frowning? Did I offend him?
“Do you have to be anywhere?”
“No.”
“Do you want to stay?”
Oh, God. Is he just being polite? I will die of mortification if I say yes, and he was just being polite. What if his whole OCD thing includes him not sharing a bed with anyone? A hint of something hopeful in his voice, though, has me being hopeful, too.
“If you want me to.”
Stepping forward into the room, his body heat breaches my personal bubble. Naked Pete body heat is the best body heat. Leveling me with a serious look, he asks patiently, “Cameron, do you want to stay?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
The tension leaves his face, replaced by a small smile. His hand goes to my hip again, but this time his lips don’t aim for my cheek. They brush against mine, sweetly. Once, and then twice more.
“So would I,” he concurs.
Striding over to the nightstand, he pulls back the covers and gives me a look as if to say he’s waiting for my move. Laying my jeans over the back of the couch, I round the bed and crawl in under the covers, lost in the pleased look in his eyes as he watches me.
