He shuddered and did, his lips parting and hips driving upwards, impaling Wyatt so deeply. He cursed, and his cock leaked a little more.
The sound of John’s orgasm ripped through him, vibrating him through his core and sending another heavenly blissful wave through him, cock spurting again. Wyatt held on tight, not realizing his body could do that—keep climaxing even after he thought he had finished.
“Fuckme, that was hot,” Wyatt panted, taking his mouth into his, kissing him thoroughly. John, breathing hard through his nose, returned the kiss, his body trembling.
He never thought sex could feelthisgood.
“I’m gonna need a nap or a double espresso to get me to work,” John grumbled, but smiled.
“You could just have a cup of hot motor oil from the break room. That’ll get your juices going,” Wyatt suggested teasingly.
“I need to buy us a new one,” John muttered. “Especially if you plan on killing me the night before.”
Wyatt laughed now, chest rumbling. He liked the feeling of John relaxing against him, holding him close. There was something so secure about it. John rested his temple against his chest as he caught his breath.
“Or the morning of…” Wyatt whispered, gently raking his fingers through his hair.
“That would be close to breaking a rule.” John kissed the base of his throat, his sexy beard brushing against his skin, affection sparkling in his blue eyes.
“Yeah, it would be.” Wyatt’s heart was practically beating out of his chest at the way John was looking at him.
Oh shit.
I think I just caught a feeling.
Chapter 10
John
John sat at the bar with Samuels and Steph at the Hot Dog Palace, classic rock playing in the background as the noise of Friday night filled the hole-in-the-wall dive bar.
“What a fuckin’ week,” Samuels grumbled, signaling the bartender for another round of beers.
“I don’t know who I hate more—Tanya or Sean,” Steph complained, finishing the last dregs of her beer before plopping it angrily down. “No one cares about her bottom line if she doesn’t care about security. Max pulled a gun off a homeboy right outside the damned door. The place is turning into a circus. We need more staff to handle the overflow.”
John listened with one ear, knowing this was the same old gripes and complaints as before. And lately, he hadn’t been as bothered by the usual stressors at work.
Probably because I’m being pounded into oblivion by a cowboy every Saturday night until the sun comes up for the last two weeks.
And fuck, it was incredible. The best sex of his entire life. Lawson felt like an infection—or an addiction.
The second the hotel door swung closed behind them, they collided like the force of stars merging, passionate, brilliant, and bursting with pure, unfiltered need. Work had somehow become their foreplay—guarded glances, brief touches, fingers grazing, and lots and lots of praise. Lawson responded every single time to it, either with a quick inhale of breath, a darkening in his eyes, or evena stumble, which happened today, over his own feet, while leaving the exam room. He liked making Lawson squirm.
Because the reward was Lawson making him squirm in the bedroom. Jumping his bones with punishing, unmet need. And fuck, it was hot.
Lawson’s body seemed constantly full of energy, and John had made the executive decision last Saturday to go back to the gym just to keep up with him. He returned to his old boxing club, his shoulder feeling almost fully back to normal due to Lawson’s magic touch, in more ways than one.
His old coach, Arnold, was excited to see him return, and they immediately went back into training mode. It felt good—no, better than good, it felt fucking rewarding to hit a heavy bag again. He’d gone three times this week before work, getting up early to get in some much needed conditioning and training.
But since John hadn’t been working out, other than with Lawson in the bedroom, he was currently sore, which he didn’t mind. Though he’d have to ask Lawson to be a bit more gentle with him tomorrow night.
He stretched his back, feeling the deadlifts he had done at the club creep up on him as he sat on the barstool.
“Sore, old man?” Samuels teased.
“I’m two years older than you, asshole.”
“And I’m ten years older than both of you jackasses,” Steph chided. “But seriously, how’s the shoulder?”
