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Jaw locked tight, Noah grumbles as I slam onto his lap, but he makes no effort to move. Whether that’s because he’s too afraid or too engrossed by the feel of my dick in his hand I don’t know, but the way his baby blues darken under hooded lids suggests any fear he might have is trumped by lust.
And I am here for it.
Though my limbs are straining with the effort to hold myself up while thrusting into his hand, I fucking love the imagery of writhing naked on top of a fully clothed man. It’s so…filthy, so primal and debauched. I’m ready to blow just picturing it, yet before I can Noah loosens his grip, and the explosion I almost reached fades into a quiet hum.
“Oh fuck. That’s… I need… Don’t stop.” Random words fall out of my mouth as I press my groin into his hand, straining to reclaim the bliss I almost found. When I can’t find it, my tortured gaze meets Noah’s.
“Can I?” He gives a leisurely pull on my cock.
He doesn’t want to stop, he wants to take over. The relief is so potent my arms struggle to support my weight.
“Fuck yes,” I pant. “Do whatever you want to me.”
Once again, he starts slow, with feather-light strokes from root to tip. It’s not enough, my chest heaves with the effort to restrain myself from bucking wildly, but my hips don’t move, giving him the freedom to explore at his own pace.
Back and forth, his hand travels over my shaft, gradually getting faster, squeezing harder, learning what makes me gasp or moan or roll my eyes back in my head. And while I try to limit my reactions to what he’s doing to me, sometimes it’s what I do to him that gets me.
Brow furrowed in concentration, blue eyes dark with desire, Noah is one sexy motherfucker. Add his slightly parted lips, his staggered breathing, and the hard dick pressing against my ass, and before long the pressure of impending release is back.
“Don’t stop. Please, God, don’t stop.” My hips swivel in earnest, alternately pushing my dick into his grip and rubbing my ass over his. Mercifully, he gets the message, pumping me harder. Faster. Until we’re a tangle of squirming, wriggling limbs lost in a frenzy of lust that couldn’t be contained even if we wanted it to. I’m on the verge of detonation. But it’s the astonished look on Noah’s face as he quivers beneath me that tips me over the edge. Oh. My. God.
My earlier restraint dissolves as my body takes over, rearing almost violently as my dick pulses out its release. Toes curling, fingers gripping Noah’s thighs hard enough to bruise, my muscles go into lockdown as a tsunami of pleasure tears through me, robbing me of the ability to do anything but hang on as I coat us both in the sticky aftermath of my bliss.
It’s a savage orgasm. Untamed. And even before my limbs stop sizzling, I know I’ll want more. Much more. As much as Noah’s willing to give.
As my dick stops weeping, I try to take stock of whether I can move only to come to the conclusion that I can’t. I’m boneless, incapable of standing, and I’m strangely content with that. Using the last of my energy I pull myself upright only to collapse on Noah’s chest, resting my forehead on his shoulder as my breathing slowly returns to normal. It’s not cuddling, it’s recovery. There’s a difference.
Noah’s hand releases me, sliding over my hip and coming to rest on my thigh as his own breathing slows, and for a moment there I swear I hear a breathless “thank you,” although I’m too dazed to give it much thought.
When I’m finally capable of movement it’s dark out, and I’m still on the couch, covered by a blanket. Noah is nowhere in sight.
Chapter 7 – Noah
I like dick.
Or at least, my body does. I wouldn’t have guessed that about myself until Tripp pushed me to examine the possibility of it. Even knowing I felt something different around him, I’m not sure I’d have done anything about it without his influence, and for that I’m grateful. I’m also still confused as hell.
Am I bi? I have to acknowledge that’s possible since I can now say I’ve done sexual things with both women and men, although since a woman hasn’t piqued my interest in quite a while bi doesn’t feel right. Have I been gay and not asexual all along, and just didn’t realize it? And if I really am gay, how come seeing Luca pleasure himself didn’t do anything for me while seeing Tripp do the same got me hard? I assume the difference is because I see Luca as more of a brother, but if I imagine watching anyone else, Xander for example, that doesn’t do anything for me either despite the fact I can objectively say he’s good-looking.
Does that mean last night was some sort of anomaly—a right place, right time sort of thing—or that I only react to Tripp? Is it even possible to respond to one particular person and not a gender? If I didn’t think that’d freak him out, I’d ask Tripp, but I don’t want to imply he’s the key to my sex life. Especially not after the way the night ended.
Neither of us mentioned it—he passed out pretty quickly after coming a second time, thank God—but I’m pretty sure he could tell I came, too. That wouldn’t matter except for the fact I warned him it probably wouldn’t happen, and while I’m pretty sure he’d be proud of succeeding where others have failed, I highly doubt he’d want to consider the fact he’s the only person who can do so. I don’t even want to consider it. Still, it's hard not to, given my history, and the fact that I can’t substitute any man for Tripp in my mind and feel the same level of excitement.
God, he was a vision–confident and sexy. Tripp unabashedly showcased himself for my pleasure then used me to chase his own. The way his body contorted. The heat in his eyes. The mixture of delight and relief on his face as he painted us with his cum. I didn’t know seduction could be so filthy yet still so beautiful, much less that I could find release from that alone.
For a brief moment afterward, I didn’t have the presence of mind to bite my tongue, and I thanked him for giving me what I thought I’d lost. I think he was already asleep at that point because he didn’t react, and fortunately he’d already left for work by the time I got up, so I have time to get my shit together before facing him. And by getting my shit together, I don’t mean freaking out about what we did since I clearly enjoyed it, I mean figuring out whether my body likes men, or just Tripp.
However, I have no idea how to go about figuring that out. I could engage in a little more experimentation while I’m here, though that wouldn’t answer the question of whether my body can respond to anyone else. And that’s hardly a question I can ask the man I’m fooling around with to help answer. It doesn’t feel right to ask Niko or Xander since they’re friends with Tripp, and even if Luca and I had the kind of relationship where I asked him for advice, I couldn’t in this scenario since he’s as straight as they come. Besides, I wouldn’t know where to start.
Aside from Tripp, who I inexplicably find myself opening up to, I haven’t hinted to anyone that I've been questioning whether I'm not cut out for sex. After all, locker rooms are more of a ‘share your exploits’ than a ‘confide your secrets’ environment, and as the last line of defense on the ice, it’s better that I appear focused on the game instead of my own internal conflicts. To burden my teammates with my questions now… Even if I could, I doubt any of them are equipped to give me sound advice.
Restless yet mentally exhausted, I revert to the one and only thing that’s ever quieted my mind – physical exertion.
Usually, hockey practice is my outlet, and it’s so rigorous it’s no wonder I don’t spend time dwelling on my inactive sex life. But during the off season running typically does the trick, and in a new neighborhood I figure the scenery alone will be enough of a diversion. And it is, though not in the way I’m expecting.
Rather than flowers and trees, of which there are plenty, I find myself noticing people. Specifically, other men who are running. Only, I’m not noticing them the way I notice Tripp. I don’t see the shape of their legs, the swing of their hips, or the cut of their jaw. Instead, I see only the whole person, which is no more or less appealing to me now than it was before I met Tripp.
After a grueling seven miles, my mind is as restless as ever, and it’s apparent nothing but puzzling out this mystery will give me any relief. So, I collapse onto the nearest bench and just sit, searching every face, every figure, to see if one of them might hold my attention the way Tripp does.
