I took the towel from his hands and dropped it to the floor, then set my thumb and forefinger under his chin, tilting his face up. The jaw was soft, still damp, a trace of shaving cream hanging on the edge of his earlobe. I ran my thumb over it, slow, and watched his pupils bloom.
I kissed him—soft at first, letting the warmth of his mouth dissolve the last of the day’s anger. He let me in without hesitation. The taste of him was still mint and the faint, mineral clean of the spring water; under that, something low and familiar, the scent I’d started to think of as belonging to this house and to no one else.
He made a small, helpless sound into my mouth, and the hands that had been empty a second before were now curled into the hem of my t-shirt, bunching the fabric hard enough to hurt.
He leaned into it, and I let him, then pushed him gently backward until he was on his back at the edge of the bed. His legs spread, towel barely holding on.
I gripped the side of his neck with one hand, thumb anchored against the pulse point, and ran the other down his shoulder, the muscle ropy and alive under the skin. He wasn’t big, not the way I was, but there was a density to him, the kind you only get from running or climbing or bracing yourself every day against some internal wind.
I broke the kiss and looked at him. His chest was rising and falling fast, nipples already drawn tight, the left a little higher than the right. I ran my fingers over both, pinched, and watched him arch up into it.
He closed his eyes. “Hoop,” he said, and it was a warning, but also a request.
I said nothing. I kept my hand on his chest and let my mouth follow it, down his throat, biting at the angle where it met his shoulder, then lower, teeth just grazing the skin until I felt him twitch under me. I worked my way down, sucking at the spot just above his left nipple until it went red, then raw, then purple.
He gripped the sheets with both hands now, the towel gone, cock standing up hard and flushed against his stomach, a bead of clear already leaking from the tip.
I licked down the center of his chest, then lower, tasting the salt and the last of the shower water, feeling his stomach tighten and jump as I traced the line of his abdominals with my tongue. He made another noise, higher this time, and I took the base of his cock in my hand, ran my thumb up the length, and watched the bead of precum spread out.
He reached for me—one hand at the back of my head, the other finding my wrist—and tried to guide me down.
I let him, for a second. I took the head of his cock into my mouth, just the tip, tongue working slow circles, then backed off, dragging my teeth along the underside until he shuddered.
He wanted to let go. I could feel it in the way his hips rolled, the way his feet flexed against the sheets, but I wasn’t ready to give it to him. Not yet.
I let go and straightened up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He looked at me, eyes glassy and almost accusatory.
I said, “Lie back.”
He did, arms above his head, cock still hard and leaking, towel now somewhere under the bed. His thighs were tense, hair still dark with water, and the skin at the top of his legs was so pale it seemed to glow.
I stood in front of him, letting him watch as I stripped my clothes off, my cock smacking against my abdomen, smearing precum along my skin.
I knelt down and ran both hands up his thighs, spreading them, then dipped my head and bit the inside of his right leg, hard enough to leave a mark.
He gasped. “Fuck—”
I did it again, this time on the left, then moved up, nose in the crease where thigh met hip, breathing him in. The scent was stronger here, animal and real, and I let myself sink into it, let the rest of the world drop away.
I reached up, found his nipple with my fingers, and pinched again. At the same time, I ran my tongue over the head of his cock, pressing down just enough to make him buck.
He was breathing hard now, making a little “uh, uh” sound with every exhale, and I could tell he was on the edge.
I let go, and he made a sound of protest, almost a whine.
I knelt up and looked at him—really looked. His hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, eyes blown wide, lips swollen andparted. The flush ran from his cheeks down his neck and across his chest, every inch of him straining for more.
I leaned over and kissed him again, hard, pushing my tongue into his mouth, letting him taste himself on me. He kissed back like it was oxygen, hands fisting again in my arms, dragging me down onto him.
I held my weight up with one arm and used the other to palm the inside of his thigh, thumb brushing his balls, fingers tracing the seam of his ass. He spread his legs for me, shameless now, hips rolling up to meet my hand.
I said, “You ready?”
He nodded, but that wasn’t enough.
“Say it,” I said.
