Page 98 of These Secret Years

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “So hot.”

“Mm…” Is all I can manage.

“Fuck, it’s tight. Shit, you feel so good, Sullivan.”

“Breathe,” I remind him.

He goes still and looks up from where he’s penetrating me to my face. We breathe together once before he sinks in another inch. It’s the magic inch though, and I jerk like he just electrocuted my prostate. “Oh, fuck me—yes.”

He knows. Of course he knows because he’s been fucked before, what he’s just done to me. I need him to move. Sliding my hand off his shoulder, I crunch up and get a hold of his ass, pulling my body the rest of the way onto his dick. “Now fuck me.”

“You feel so fucking amazing.”

“So do you. So do you. Please.” I’m panting and needy and my fingernails are digging into his flesh. He’s trembling like he’s scared to move. “You’re an athlete,” I remind him. “You can do this.”

He snorts and gives me a wry grin. “I’m literally picturing landfills right now. Give me a second.”

I can’t. Or I want to, but my body can’t. I’m swiveling on him. My ass is moving on its own. His face goes through a series of contortions as he tries to regulate himself, and I wish I could help, but it’s beyond me. He gives his balls a rough tug and throws his head back, growling up at the dimming sky. “Fuck!” he shouts.

“You got this,” I tell him. “Fuck me. Fuck me, Knight.”

“Fuck.”

With my legs draped over his arms and his hands on my ass to hold me still, he gives me one firm thrust. He lets out a big breath, swallows so hard, I can hear it, and then he’s finally on my level. He lets my ass go in favor of gripping me around the waist, and he starts moving.

It’s epic. It’s glorious. Better than the first time. There are no words.

He’s gorgeous, and he’s in this with me and in me, and we are using each other like bodies are meant to be used. There’s no holding back from me. By some fucking miracle, my past has completely fallen away, and all there is in the world is me and Knight. Yeah, it still feels like a dream or a fantasy, but I don’t mind that because reality is awful. I can’t help what my body’s doing. As much as I loved fucking him, I actually love this more. Or—I don’t know—maybe I like all of it because I like him, and whatever he needs is fine by me.

My ass clenches in time with his slow thrusts, each one making us groan. Eventually, using the grip I have on his waist, I haul myself up. He gets an arm around my back and drops my legs so I can straddle his thighs. I kiss him as I move up and down on his cock. He puts a hand on my face before it drifts into my hair, holding my mouth close, occasionally breathing into it, occasionally pushing his tongue in deep.

With my hand on my dick again, I jerk it. Almost immediately I go from turned on to the goddamn brink of coming. “I’m close,” I tell him.

He kisses me, hard and passionately. That’s the last straw apparently, because my second orgasm completely takes me over. I can’t breathe as cum erupts from my tip, and my dick pulses thickly in my hand. “Oh…God…Fuck, don’t fucking stop. Come with me.”

He needs no more encouragement. Like he’s been barely hanging on for those words exactly, Knight’s head falls to my neck, and he holds me firmly on his cock as it thuds powerfully in my ass. “Unnh…ahh…fuck…Sullivan. Jesus.”

I turn to kiss his hair, both of us breathing hard to come down from the high. I’ve covered us both well with my release, and all that warm lube is leaking from me. We’re both drenched in sweat, and I like to think it’ll keep us stuck together indefinitely, but really it’s just slippery, and I’m clinging to him like my life depends on it.

“I still think I could do better,” he says when our breathing returns to normal.

“I’m not sure I could handle better.”

“Well, you have to let me at least try. For old time’s sake.”

“Did you bring any snacks?”

He chuckles against my damp skin. “Of course I did.”

Chapter Twenty-One

KNIGHT

He’s different now. He’s even more different today than he was the first time I brought him out here, and he was pretty different then, too. Don’t get me wrong. He’s still evasive as hell, he’d rather fuck than talk, and he’s still a sarcastic shit, but he’s also—sweet. Like when we’re kissing or making out—even when we’re having sex, he’s tender and adoring and unguarded with whatever he’s feeling. He wasn’t like that last summer. When we’re fucking, he’s doing it like he cherishes every second, every part of me.

It’s no wonder this has become a weekly thing, for me anyway. He has yet to explain himself. I don’t know what we are or what we’ll become tomorrow when I head home, but every kiss gives me some faith that I won’t lose him completely again. Like he wouldn’t, right? Whether that means what I’d love it to mean or not, it means something.

And it’s past time we talked about it.