Page 25 of Locked & Loaded

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough.

I kiss his jaw, his throat. His pulse hammers against my lips, and I bite the spot just below his ear. He shudders and curses under his breath.

I take that as a cue to pause, to make sure he’s all right, but when I pull back, Rodriguez lets out a small, involuntary sound of protest.

I laugh, breathless, my heart going wild.

“How was the kiss?” he asks, his voice wrecked, half a laugh in it, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear me say it.

“Well, I’m definitely not straight,” I say, my breath harsh.

He grins. His hand slides down my stomach, over the waistband of my shorts, and closes around my cock through the fabric. I curse, the word torn out of me, my hips jerking against his hand.

“Fuck—”

He squeezes, his palm pressing against the length of me, and I groan, burying my face in his neck. I mirror him, sliding my hand down to touch him through two layers of fabric, but it’s not enough.

It’s not fucking enough.

Like he hears the thought, Rodriguez’s hand moves from my cock to the waistband of my shorts. His fingers hook under the elastic, but then he hesitates.

“Can I?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” I say.

He pushes my shorts down, just enough, and my cock springs free, hard, aching. The cold air hits it, and I curse.

Rodriguez goes still.

For a second, he only stares. The moonlight catches the curve of me, the length, and his eyes go wide in the dim light, his mouth slightly open.

“Jesus,” he says, his voice thick.

I flush. I know what he’s seeing. I’m not small. I’ve known that since juniors, when I started winning stupid locker-room dick-measuring contests no one ever admitted we were having. But the way Rodriguez is looking at me—like he can’t quite believe it’s real—makes the heat crawl up my neck.

His hand wraps around me, finally skin on skin, and I gasp. His palm is warm, his grip firm, and he strokes once, from base to tip, making my whole body shudder.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

He does it again, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder, my breath catching. His thumb slides over the head, smearing the wetness there, and I groan, my hips pushing into his hand.

Holy fucking shit. He’s way too good at this, and the part of my brain that’s supposed to be processing the fact that this is happening—that Christopher Rodriguez has his hand on my dick and I’m letting him—has gone completely offline.

I should be thinking something profound. By any reasonable standard, this is a life-altering moment. First time touching a man. First time being touched by one.

Instead, all I can think is: more.

I want more.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my hips pushing into his grip. “Chris—”

“I’ve got you,” he says.

He lets go just long enough to spit into his palm, then wraps his hand back around me, slick and hot, and I almost lose it right there.

His gaze drops again, fixed on what he’s doing to me.

The moonlight catches his face as his thumb circles the head again, slower this time, and the drag of it makes me shudder. I watch him watching me, and the sight is so fucking hot it tightens my stomach.