Page 67 of His Sinful Need

I shift us until he’s on his back on the couch and I’m braced above him. We grind together through our clothes, Bricker setting the pace, and he pulls me down to capture my mouth again.

When we part, his eyes are dark and hungry. “Then take care of me already. I need to shut my brain off.”

I haul his shirt over his head before attacking the zipper of his jeans. He lifts his hips so I can strip him bare, cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

I pause to take it in, the sight of him. The smell of him. I bend to lick up his length, swirling my tongue around the head. Bricker groans, back arching off the couch.

“Fuck, Max, get your mouth around me—please—”

I suck him down then, unwilling to tease. Not tonight. He cards his fingers into my hair, guiding me into a rhythm that has him panting and writhing under me. I reach down to palm myself briefly, but my focus is on him.

But Bricker tugs at my hair. “Get naked. I wanna see you.”

I pull off reluctantly, shucking my clothes as Bricker watches through heavy-lidded eyes. His gaze is molten, raking over me possessively.

There’s part of me that wants to flip him over and fuck his brains out. But that part will have to take a backseat tonight. He needs a little more tenderness, I think, after these last few days. So I lay out over him, face to face, legs tangled together, and wrap a hand around both our cocks, stroking firmly. He’s smooth and hot all over, and I marvel again at the landscape of his body as I look down to watch us.

A goddamn work of art, this kid. He spends a lot of time making himself look good, all for the benefit of other men. And right now, it’s formybenefit. That pleasant idea shoots right through me, along with a streak of possessiveness that I didn’t expect. “You’re gorgeous,” I tell him, and he practically preens, leaning up for another kiss.

I let him take the lead, match his speed as he thrusts into my fist, and after running a tongue over that smooth, broad chest, I capture his mouth again. The kissing turns messy and wet as the tension builds, until the hot slide of his cock against mine is all I can concentrate on.

I could do this forever, but Bricker’s already there, breaking his mouth away from mine with a choking cry, back arching. I feel the hot spill between us and I hurry it up, working him through it just as my own orgasm hits me, rolling through my body in waves.

For a long moment we just lie there, breathing each other in. All tension has left Bricker’s body, replaced by loose-limbed satisfaction. I brush the hair back from his forehead and kiss him there, seeing faint puzzlement in his eyes when I pull back.

God, I wish this first time had been a little more…I don’t know. “Romantic” isdefinitelynot the word I’m looking for, and where the hell do I get off calling it a first time? This is a one-off.

It has to be.

The guilt is already creeping in with depressing predictability, replacing any well-being from the orgasm. But Bricker seems happier, and that’s what matters.

“Better?” I ask.

His smile is slow. “Much. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for this.” I take a chance and kiss him softly, wanting to keep this vulnerable Bricker open a little longer. “I do…want to take care of you.”

Bricker’s expression turns pensive. “You always do, Max. Even when I’m being a grade-A asshole. Why is that?”

I can’t answer that. Not right now. So I just pull him closer, both of us uncaring of the mess between us. “Get some sleep for a few hours, huh? Right here. Like this. Screw the mess.”

He nods, eyes drifting shut. I wait until his breathing evens out in sleep before I let myself follow.

* * *

I wake slowly, blinking at a giant TV. For a moment I’m disoriented, unsure of my surroundings, but then I feel the weight of Bricker in my arms, and the memories return.

We’re still lying on the couch, but now Bricker is sprawled half on top of me, jeans still around his thighs, face mashed into my shoulder, snoring softly. I smile, running a hand down his back.

He stirs at my touch, lifting his head to peer at me through sleep-tousled hair. “Mm…time is it?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.

“Dinner, maybe.” I tilt my head to get a better look at the digital clock near the TV. “Around seven.”

“Mmm.” He drops his head back to my shoulder, nosing at my throat. “Hungry.”

I laugh, the sound rumbling in my chest. “Same. But comfortable.”

He grunts in agreement. “Stay here.” It’s more order than request, and he throws an arm and leg over me to keep me in place. I have no intention of going anywhere, though. My belly can wait.

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