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I grinned, too. “Next time. Today, I was in a hurry. I needed your cock in my ass ASAP.”
Dylan chuckled at that. It turned into a moan as I sat down on his lap, impaling myself on his length. I exhaled slowly as I draped my arms around his shoulders. After giving myself a moment to adjust to the feeling of fullness and the way his thick cock stretched me, I began to move.
I rode him slowly at first, then harder and faster, straddling him and bouncing on his lap. At that angle, his cock slammed into my prostate with each down-stroke. I jerked myself off at the same time, chasing my orgasm as jolts of pleasure shot through me.
When I looked into Dylan’s eyes, the connection between us was surprisingly intense. I didn’t know what to do with everything it stirred up in me, so I looked away. But he took my chin and gently turned my head until I met his gaze again. There was raw emotion in his eyes, and I wondered if he was feeling the same things I was.
I forgot about trying to make myself come and kissed him as I laced my fingers at the back of his neck. As I rested my forehead against his, he said, “You feel so good, baby boy.”
He started jerking me off, and I whimpered as I kept driving myself onto his cock. I’d never felt so vulnerable during sex before, but at the same time every part of this was just so unbelievably good.
Before long, I cried out as I came, clinging to Dylan and thrusting into his palm while I slammed myself onto his cock. All of it was overwhelming. Then he started coming too, thrusting up into me as he bit back a yell. Everything blurred together in that moment—him, and me, and all that pleasure and sensation.
I was pretty out of it by the time that huge orgasm finally ended. I curled up against Dylan’s chest, gasping for air and shaking, and he covered me with his T-shirt and held me securely. He was saying something—sweet, comforting words that I barely heard, but the sound of his voice was soothing.
When I was slightly more coherent, Dylan gently placed me on the couch and tucked the shirt around me before saying, “I’ll be right back.”
He returned from the bathroom soon after, dressed in plaid pajama pants and carrying a pair of washcloths. He moved me onto his lap and cleaned the come from my chest and stomach with a damp cloth, and then he dried me with the other. It was awfully nice, being cared for like that.
Then he got up and cradled me in his arms as he carried me across the apartment. At the foot of the ladder, he said, “This is less than romantic, but I only know of one way to get you safely up to my bed.” With that, he draped me over his shoulder, then climbed the ladder effortlessly.
I chuckled and told him, “Normally this would worry me, but since you’re an actual firefighter and this is called a fireman’s carry, I feel pretty confident you won’t drop me.”
He climbed into bed with me and said, “You seemed too wobbly to climb up here on your own, but this is a lot more comfortable than the couch.”
“There was no way I would have made it. I’m way too floppy.” While I was talking, I burrowed deeper into his arms, until I was pressed against him. When he kissed my forehead, a goofy grin spread across my face.
We stayed like that for a long time—content, comfortable, and all wrapped up in each other. After a while, I said, “I hope I wasn’t too forward earlier.”
“What do you mean?”
“I practically threw myself at you, the moment you opened the door.”
“No, I really liked that.”
“Okay. I wasn’t sure,” I said. “Since we hadn’t gone there yet, I didn’t know if there was a reason you were waiting. I probably should have asked, instead of showing up here totally thirsty.”
“You’d told me before that all most guys want from you is sex. I wanted you to know I wasn’t that kind of guy, so I decided to hang back and let you decide when we went this far.”
“I know you’re not. You’re the nicest guy I’ve ever met, Dylan.” He made a little sound in the back of his throat, kind of like he was fighting back a groan, and I asked, “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I know you meant it as a compliment. It’s just that I’ve always been called a nice guy, and…well, that’s not very sexy or exciting, is it?”
“You’re sexy and exiting too, but calling you a nice guy was meant as a huge compliment. Do you know how many jerks I’ve been with over the years? I used to have a real gift for attracting them, starting with the first guy I ever dated, back when I was eighteen.”
“You didn’t date until you were eighteen?” I sat up and nodded, and he said, “I guess I assumed your parents found out you were gay because you got involved with someone.”
“No. They found out because my older brother Jonathan found my secret journal and went running to our parents with it. It was all perfectly innocent. I’d been using it as a way of trying to work through my feelings and come to terms with the fact that I was attracted to boys instead of girls. Anyway, they confronted me, and when I admitted I was gay—well, you know the rest of this story.
“Most of it, anyway. I didn’t tell you how I started sneaking around when I turned eighteen. I was afraid to do it sooner, in case Gran found out and kicked me out, too. But the summer after I graduated, I met a guy I thought was worth the risk. I was wrong though, and he ended up using me, cheating on me, and dumping me.”
Dylan said, “I’m so sorry.”
“Nah, don’t be. It was a long time ago, and he’s barely worth mentioning.” I shifted around a bit, adjusting the blanket as I asked, “So, how old were you when you started dating?”
“Nineteen.”
I shook my head. “There’s no way! A hottie like you? I assumed you were the most popular guy in your high school—unless you weren’t out yet and felt like you had to keep it a secret for some reason.”
