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A second finger joins the first, seated deep inside him. My free hand doesn’t stop mapping out the dips and crests of his torso as I focus on working him open. Stretching his hole, knowing that in a few short minutes, I’m going to be burying myself inside of it.
After an entire day of trying to be good, I’m done holding back.
I duck down to pick up the condom and make fast work of rolling it down my length before taking the lube from Christian and coating myself in it. I employ every trick in the book to take myself back from the edge, but no number of sweaty gym socks can take away how it feels to push forward and have Christian’s body open for me. The pressure, the deep suction. The way hepresses back to take me deeper with the kind of gravelly cry I feel in my chest.
His forehead hits the wall in front of him, hands searching for grip and making his shoulder blades flex. I grunt as I bottom out, steadying myself with a tight grip on his hip. Holding our bodies flush and connected.
Heat is coursing through me, all lust and attraction, and absolutely nothing else. I ignore the fullness, ignore the way my gaze fixes on his parted lips when he tilts his head to the side, ignore how I hold him against me, just for a second, just to feel the way he fits.
I’m already panting like some kind of animal in heat, and I’m almost glad his back is to me and he can’t see the way I’m coming entirely undone in the most incredibly pathetic way. I could hold him and he’d let me–I know he would. And it’s possibly that, or possibly how desperately I want to, that warns me it’s not a good idea.
So instead, I move my grip to his neck, fingers tightening over the back of it. “I hope you’re ready.”
“Oh, fuck. Give it to me already.”
I’m only too happy to comply. My hips snap forward in a few practice thrusts that set my teeth on edge. He feels too good. Too … consuming.
There’s no point trying to play cool and smooth when every cell in my body is roaring at me to let go.
So I do.
I fuck him so hard, he collides with the wall, over and over. His grunts are short and hot, building to the melody of our bodies slapping together.
“Yes, yes,yes,fuck, more.More.”
And I’m not sure that I can give him more, but I give him everything that I can. No holding back. Thrusting together in afrenzy of groans and praises, the sweat building on our skin and filling the room with the most intoxicating scent.
The nervous laugh that so often scratches at my skin builds, only this time it isn’t nerves. It’s relief and joy and a type of pleasure I’ve never known to look for. My fingers tighten their hold, nails biting into his hip, other thumb leaving a visible depression right below his jaw. I press harder, fingers curling into his hair.
I want to leave him covered in my marks and use them to count the days until we give in again. Because this need, this drive, there’s no way I can ignore it for long, and I’m beginning to suspect he feels the same. The magnetism between us is unique to only him and me and the moments it builds between us.
Christian’s palmthwacksthe wall as the other disappears down to grip himself. He pushes back onto me, fucking himself on my cock, and even though my thighs and my arms are starting to complain, I double up on my efforts. Like I’m trying to turn him inside out and upside down, the way I’m suspiciously worried he’s already doing to me. Without trying. Without wanting. I’m so drawn to him, he’ll be my undoing.
“Yep, I’m gonna … I’m gonna …” He stiffens, head thrown back, and I loosen my hold on his hair to snake around the front. My hand finds a home around his throat and I tug his ear between my teeth, owning him, claiming him, as the tingles racing from my spine to my balls overwhelm me. My thrusts lose rhythm. My brain melting to a soup ofyes, perfect, fuck, mine, and when I can’t hold back any longer, I gladly fall over the edge. Emptying my release into the condom is a soaring high, punctured only by the thought that I wish the condom didn’t exist at all.
Christian slumps and I follow him. Sweaty limbs tangled together up against the wall. We stay there, panting, recovering, fingers finding each other and linking, stroking, touching.
I laugh, so quiet only his hair could hear me, letting out too much happiness to hold in one body, and Christian cringes as I slip from him.
“Well, that should keep us going for another week, I’d say.”
He pushes carefully off the wall. “Are you kidding? All that’s done is make everything much, much worse.”
At first, I’m worried he regrets it, and maybe I could have pushed harder to check he meant for all of that to happen, but then he steps closer and reels me in. The hurricane of thoughts stops.
“I’m gonna need a repeat. Or two? Maybe three. How many rounds did we go last time? We have a record to beat.”
“We better get to it then.”
Chapter 22
Christian
I’m still struggling to catch up with the dramatic overhaul my life has done. Performing nearly every day, sometimes twice a day, already takes a lot out of me, but in between the shows, I have to sneak time in with Émile. And, unfortunately, his family.
Who I was sure were assholes the day I met them, but now there’s zero doubt left in my mind. Planning a wedding under the burning eye of disapproval takes more out of me than performing for two hours straight.
None of them are happy about the way Émile proposed, none of them are happy about the way the engagement was announced, and none of them are happy with literally any of the choices we’re making for this stupid wedding. It makes me very glad I’ve never wanted to go through that for real, because I’m probably going to end up with PWSD—post wedding stress disorder.
