Page 27 of Locked & Loaded

“Chris,” I gasp against his mouth. “I’m close—”

“Me too,” he says, his voice cracking. “God, Mads, I’m—”

His rhythm falters, his hand tightening on my cock, and I feel his body go rigid against me. His orgasm hits him hard—his cock pulsing in my hand, hot and slick, his voice breaking on a groan. I feel every throb of it, every pulse against my palm, and the sight of him coming undone—Christopher Rodriguez, the most controlled man I’ve ever met, losing it completely in my hands—is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

His hand slows on my cock, his grip loosening as he rides it out, his breathing ragged against my neck. But I’m not done. I’m so close I can taste it, my hips pushing into his slack grip, and Rodriguez must feel it because his hand tightens again.

“Come on,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “Come for me, Mads.”

His hand finds its rhythm again, and that’s all it takes. My orgasm slams into me, my cock pulsing in his grip, my hips jerking against his hand. I come with a groan I don’t bother trying to muffle, my forehead pressed to his, my whole body shuddering as he works me through it. His hand is gentler now, stroking me until the sensitivity edges into too much.

“Fuck,” I breathe, my voice shaking.

“Fuck,” he echoes, and he’s laughing, weak and breathless.

For a moment, neither of us moves. We’re pressed together on this stupidly narrow bunk, both of us panting and covered in sweat and cum.

My brain picks that moment to come back online.

We just jerked each other off. On a train. In a compartment the size of a broom closet. After three months of pretending we didn’t want to be anywhere near each other.

I should probably say something. Something that captures the gravity of the moment. Something that acknowledges the fact that my entire understanding of myself just got rearranged in the space of twenty minutes.

Instead, I say, “We need to clean up.”

Rodriguez laughs, the sound loud in the dark. “Yeah.”

The bunk is a mess. We’re both a mess.

We use the sheet to clean up in silence, and when we finish, I reach for my shorts and pull them up, wincing at the cold fabric against sensitive skin. Rodriguez pulls his pants up too, clearly freezing now. The compartment is icy, snow blowing in harder through the broken vent, and the sweat on my skin is starting to cool. I shiver.

“Cold?” Rodriguez asks.

“A little.”

He shifts, pulling me closer, wrapping his hoodie-clad arms around me. The gesture is so unconsciously possessive it makes my stomach flip. He’s hugging me. He’s wearing my clothes. He came in my hand five minutes ago.

He pulls back to look at me, and in the dim light, his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them.

“So,” he says quietly. “Bisexual awakening, huh?”

I grin. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. That’s a pretty dramatic way to put it.”

“After what just happened, I stick by it,” I say with a snort.

He laughs, the sound low in his chest, and I want to kiss him again.

So I do.

It’s slower this time. His mouth is warm against mine, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, and the tenderness of it catches me off guard. Christopher Rodriguez, kissing me like I’m something precious instead of glaring back at me like he wishes I didn’t exist. I could get used to this.

I already am.

When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine, and his breath is warm on my lips.

“We should probably sleep,” he murmurs. “We should also probably get up early and catch someone to open this fucking door before we get to Copenhagen.”