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I’m on fucking autopilot. It takes me maybe two or three seconds to assume the position and one more second to feel his hand moving up my back, applying firm pressure between my shoulder blades until my face hits the mattress.
I grunt as precum spills from my dick to the floor. There’s so much, it makes a sound like I’m pissing myself. Whatever muscles pushed it out of me continue to vibrate with arousal, and I grip the velvet comforter and growl, edged on anticipation alone. I’m sweating.
Olivier’s fingertips glide from my taint to my hole on a slick slide of lube. “This was the conversation by the way,” he says softly, but I don’t follow. “I didn’t know whether you’d ever want me to fuck you again, and he said I should talk to you about it.”
“You talked to Jeremy about fucking me?”
More precum, another splatter, a dangerous clench in my groin. Something about how humiliating it is—the position I’m in—that my bottoming for Olivier is a conversation topic—I guess it’s working for me. Tonight anyway. Maybe I should have him choke me and spit on me, too. Really complete the cycle.
He rubs his cock around the rim of my wide-open hole. It’s back there begging for him. Starving. “I’m just trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says. “You know I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Put it in me. That’s the only thing you need to be doing.”
“Mmm…You don’t want me to stretch you out first?” That voice. Seduction and filth.
“I want you to fuck me. Just fuck me.”
“You gonna come for me?” he asks, fitting his cockhead in place.
“Yes, baby.”
“I like that,” he murmurs before slamming into me so hard, my knees buckle, his hips smack my ass, and a sob rips from my chest, deep and wrenching and completely obliterating.
I come apart at the seams, unraveling and choking on my tears with each successive thrust.
He doesn’t go easy on me. He’s not gentle or tender or loving. He fucks me just like I asked him to and exactly the way I need. Like he read my fucking mind.
Again.
The thought is terrifying, but there’s no opportunity for panic when I have to use all my will to stay on my feet.
He pounds and pounds, and each rough thrust brings a new emotional outburst. A scream. Another sob. A growl and a long series of pathetic whimpers.
I don’t even know if it feels good. I just know he’s in me, and he’s wrecking me, and he’s shoving everything I’ve kept buried deep, deep inside me out in sound waves that are louder than any sound Elodie’s ever made. I burn and I break over and over again until I’m literally weeping into the covers.
Olivier takes some mercy on my unspent dick, reaching around and jerking me until I finally spill.
As the contractions of a release so fundamentally necessary work through my body, my ass clenches on him in sporadic spasms. He groans my name and fills me with one hot gush after another, his nails digging into my sides, his hair tickling my back.
When, after long minutes, he pulls out, I sink to the floor, and he follows.
49
OLIVIER
MAY
It turns out love is fairly easy. I love Mallory, Elodie, Jeremy and even, for the most part, Matthew. They’re easy. They deliver affection the way I grew up expecting it. If they were the only people in my life, I wouldn’t have a care in the world.
It’s being in love that’s hard.
I don’t think I realize how deeply in love with Drew I am until I start to lose him.
His withdrawal is subtle at first. A smile that doesn’t make it to his eyes, a touch that doesn’t linger as long as I expect, silence where I thought he’d have a laugh.
It was after his father had a heart attack and then died in the middle of the night—that same night I held Drew in my arms because he wouldn’t let me go—that Drew shut down.
What I know, and what Drew knows, is he was planning to fly out at six in the morning. He would have been at the hospital by ten. No one could have known it would happen as fast as it did, which is easy for me to say, but even I felt like a fucking moron after Peggy got done scream-crying at Drew that he should have been there.
