Page 37 of Catching Flynn

There.

Zavier did it again until Flynn was trembling, his cock leaking against his stomach, his thighs spread helplessly wide.

“Zavier,” Flynn said, half plea, half dazed wonder.

The room felt too warm. Rain had started outside at some point, tapping softly at the window, but Zavier barely heard it over Flynn’s breathing and the wild beat of his own pulse. He slicked his dick, then guided the slick over Flynn’s entrance again, working him open with patient circles before giving his hole another slow press of two fingers.

Flynn arched under him with a broken moan, one hand flying to Zavier’s wrist while the other fisted the sheet. “Fuck, you really commit to a bit.”

A laugh rumbled out of Zavier before he kissed him, softening the edge of the stretch with his mouth. “You’re still talking. Good sign.”

“Bad sign,” Flynn gasped, eyes squeezed shut as Zavier curled his fingers and rubbed that sweet spot again. “Talking means I’m trying not to combust.”

His mate’s body answered everything for him. Every little flutter around Zavier’s fingers, every sharp inhale, every helpless roll of his hips into the touch. Zavier could not stop looking at him. Flynn was sprawled across the bed with his thighs open and his skin flushed gold in the lamplight, narrow through the waist, lean all over, cock hard and wet against his stomach. He looked devastating. He looked made for worship.

Bending his head, Zavier kissed his way down Flynn’s jaw and throat, then lower, mouthing one nipple until Flynn made that wrecked little noise again. At the same time, he eased a third finger in with excruciating care, loving the way Flynn’s body resisted for a second and then gave, heat closing around him.

“Oh my God,” Flynn whispered hoarsely. “You’re trying to turn me into soup.”

“That was always the plan.” Zavier sucked lightly at his throat, then licked the spot to soothe it.

Flynn laughed weakly, but the sound dissolved into a moan when Zavier stretched him deeper. His abdomen tightened. His cock jerked against his skin. Zavier wrapped his free hand around it and stroked once, slow from root to tip, and Flynn nearly folded in half.

“Zavier.” His voice came out thin and wrecked. “You are doing entirely too much and also not enough.”

Amusement warmed through him even while lust clawed at his insides. “Greedy.”

“Very,” Flynn breathed, then opened his eyes and looked straight at him. “You made me this way.”

That gaze punched through him harder than anything else. Zavier kissed him again, deeper, wet and unhurried, swallowing the sounds Flynn kept making while he worked him open. He wanted this drawn out. Wanted Flynn loose and flushed and shaking before he gave him what they both wanted. Wanted to feel every second of his mate giving himself over.

Rain tapped more steadily at the window now, a soft patter under the wet sounds of lube and breath and shifting sheets. The room smelled like sex already, warm skin and Flynn’s sweet scent wrapping around Zavier’s senses until he felt half drunk on it.

When Flynn started grinding down against his hand, chasing pressure with shy little movements that were anything but subtle, Zavier finally drew his fingers out.

The loss made Flynn whine.

Zavier almost came from that alone.

“Cute,” he murmured.

Flynn glared up at him with blown pupils and flushed cheeks. “That was a very vulnerable noise. I want it stricken from the record.”

Instead of answering, Zavier hooked a hand behind one of Flynn’s knees and spread him wider, then stroked more lube over his own dick. The slick glide of his hand was almost too much. His cock ached, heavy and hard, and the sight of Flynn watching every movement with his lips parted nearly unraveled his self-control.

When he lined himself up, Flynn’s breath caught hard.

Zavier brushed their mouths together once, twice, then pushed in slowly.

Heat engulfed him in a tight, wet press that made his vision pulse. Flynn gasped and gripped his shoulders, thighs tensing around Zavier’s hips. Every inch felt hot and snug and fucking perfect, his body yielding little by little under steady pressure.

“Look at me,” Zavier said roughly.

Flynn did. His lashes fluttered. His mouth stayed open on a quick breath. The trust in his face hit almost as hard as the sensation of Flynn’s body taking him in.

“Still trying not to combust,” Flynn whispered, though his voice shook.

Zavier kissed him through the last of the tension, not hurrying, just holding him there while Flynn adjusted. He stroked a hand over Flynn’s side, marveling again at the slim line of him, the smooth skin, the way his body trembled under each careful touch.