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Ethan
I hand Victor the remote as I arrange our haul on a wobbly table next to the tiny microwave. “Find something good.”
He sits cross-legged in the middle of one of the beds and flips through channels we can’t understand. When he stops on something that looks like news, it starts playing an ad for comeVa and he rapidly moves on. He settles on a show where people are demolishing a kitchen and bringing in new tile, arguing loudly over what looks like curtain swatches. I chuckle. “My mom’s obsessed with these shows.”
“I watch them sometimes, in the—” He cuts off and presses his lips together, glances at me. I think I know what he was going to say, but I don’t want to be right.
As his sandwich heats up, I dig a gold-wrapped candy out of our bag and examine it. “Gianduiotto?”
“It’s Italian for ‘you’re a man-child who bought his weight in dessert for dinner’.”
“This is amazing,” I mumble through a mouthful of rich chocolate. “I need to get, like, seven hundred of these to take home.”
Passing Victor his dinner, I perch on the end of the other bed and open a bag of chips. A low whistle makes me turn. He pats his bed, next to his knee, his big eyes careful on me.
The mattress dips under my weight and he has to grab his drink to keep it from falling over. “Tables exist for a reason,” he complains.
“You’ve never had a movie night?” He shakes his head. “A bed picnic?” He pulls a face. “A sleepover?” His eyebrow twitches, and he shakes his head slowly. His breathing seems unsteady
“Now you have. Hope you’re having fun.”
He tilts his head, pretending to consider. “The food is shit, I can’t understand the TV, and stuff keeps spilling.”
He’s such a fucking brat and I can’t keep my hands out of his hair for another second. It’s still warm as I run my fingers slowly through the tangle, like it’s holding the sun. “You’re impossible to please.” His eyes half close as my thumb brushes his cheek, finds the corner of his mouth.
He rolls his head, pressing it into my palm. “That’s not true,” he murmurs. Eyes fixed on mine, he kisses my palm, the inside of my wrist, achingly slow with his chapped lips.
I grip his jaw in one hand and climb on top of him, shoving him deep into the mattress as I claim his mouth, stroke by hungry stroke, tilting my head sideways to get even deeper. He clings to me, a fistful of my shirt in each hand, making helpless, longing whimpers, the most vulnerable I’ve ever heard him. And I can feel in his body the moment that he finally lets go and gives me all the power, all the control. It’s terrifying.
I break the kiss, gasping, and roll over to lie next to him, pulling him against me. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” I breathe against his neck. “I’m not some kind of macho alpha top. I’m scared I can’t give you what you want.” I’m scared my body won’t cooperate, that I’ll hurt him, most of all that I’ll break whatever strange connection we built between us today.
His fingers find my hair, rub the back of my neck, trail down to trace my lips as he looks up at me with eyes full of lonely, distant stars and, so far behind them he isn’t even aware of it himself, something unbroken. “Your body knows what to do,” he whispers. “It’s already part of you.”
I kiss him again and again because I can't stop, tasting the memory of mint gum on his lips, mumbling my words in between kisses. “If I made you think I’m strong, it’s not true.”
“I already told you.” He takes my hand, wraps it gently around the base of his throat, his fingers woven through mine. “I’ll show you how to hurt me.”
My forehead rests against his. “I don’t want to hurt you.” But I’m so hard it feels like my shorts are about to tear open.
This time he moves my hand to his chest, pressed over his heart. It's thundering against my palm. “I’ve been fucked more times than I could ever remember. I’ve been used, passed around.” He swallows. “But deep down, you think that no one in this world can give it to me the way you can. You think you know how to fix me, how to make me as good as you.” His finger brushes my bulge, trails along it as the corner of his mouth turns up. “You’re gonna have to prove it, because I don’t believe you.”
The words wake up something inside me, urgent and powerful. Twining my fingers in his hair, I tip his chin back and kiss along the hollow of his throat. “Take off your shorts,” I say against his warm, perfect skin. If my body knows, I’ll follow it anywhere.
Faster than I’ve ever seen him obey me, he’s fumbling with the tie on the board shorts he’s been wearing since we ran away from Naples. He kicks them around his ankles and his cock springs up against his belly, long and straining. I sit up and pull off my shirt, then spread his knees for me, sit between them. I kiss the head of his cock and rub my nose through his trimmed nest of blond, musky-smelling pubic hair.
“Wait,” he frets. “You don’t have to—”
He shuts up when I climb his body and take his face firmly in my hands. “I don’t care how any other asshole fucked you, Victor Lang. If I’m going to do this, I’m gonna do it my way.” My thumb slips into his mouth and he grips it in his teeth, eyes wide. “I’m the one you’re wet for, right? Not them. Because they don’t hate you like I do.” He nods.
Returning to the foot of the bed, I spread his legs further, holding them still, and run my tongue up the bottom of his shaft, from balls to tip. He arches into my touch, moaning. “No one’s ever done this to you before, have they?” I ask, stroking his thigh.
“No.” He whimpers when I pull him into my mouth. He tastes wild, dark and feral and good. I suck him as hard and tight and flushed as he can get as he watches me through pleading eyes, sprawled on his back with his arms over his head.
When I return to his mouth, he licks the taste of himself off my tongue, running his hands all over my body. “Let me take care of you,” he begs.
He scrambles across the bed as I stand up, throwing off his shirt and lying down on his stomach in all his naked glory.
Unlike the night in the pool, he takes his time. He hums in his chest, nuzzling me, kissing my length, then lapping at it just like he licked the orange juice off his wrist in the field. He slicks it all wet for him and I can tell he’s very, very practiced as he works me into his mouth and teases me crazy with easy swirls of his tongue.
