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The door swings open, the snow falls from his coat, and he mutters curse words. “I’m guessing no luck on getting a signal, then?”
He strips from his cold clothes, and crawls into the bed, pulling the covers over his cold body. I have the answer to my question with a scowl on his face. I know the fire will help Xan.
“Here.” I grab another log and place it on the fire, warmth billowing from the hearth.
“The snow is coming down fairly hard, still. I can’t imagine they’ll get up here to search until tomorrow or maybe even Sunday,” he explains. “I walked to the end of the road, and there’s been nothing, no tire tracks, no cars, no signal.”
“The road is a good quarter mile, and if you got hurt or stuck, I’d be unable to get to you. The last thing either of us need is for the other to go missing.”
“Oh, look at you, Clark. Now you’re concerned for my well-being after you almost took off my head and stabbed me with that beast you keep under lock and key behind your zipper.”
My eyes heat, and he is flaming with hate or desire, I’m not sure, and we keep the death stare, neither one of us backing off.
His lunge is unexpected as I do the same, and before I understand what we’re doing, our mouths are locked, assaulting each other with our lips and tongues. His hands are on my back, his long fingers digging into my skin, and my hand moves to cup his impressive sword.
Pants, moans, and groans fill the cabin, and I flip him onto his back. We don’t stop kissing or fucking each other with our lips. His fingers are painful but not unpleasant. If I were to ever imagine kissing my mortal enemy, this is precisely how I’d predict it would go.
“Yeah,” is all I can get out between our mouths, and my hand reaches between his waistband and skin.
“Yeah,” he agrees, and I palm his erection. He’s not small or even average-sized, and I’m not gentle, but he doesn’t seem to care. He continues to mouth his desire through our assaulting kisses, and we don’t come up for air.
No doubt Xander feels my hard-on, but he doesn’t say anything, and thrusts his hips into my groin, making his desire clear. There’s no doubt he wants this. Call it temporary insanity. I let out a growl, and his hands move to the front of me, pushing my pants down.
We’re playing with fire. You know what they say about playing with fire—you’ll get burned. I’ll patch up that wound later because the heat of us together and the need we both have, as evident by our growing cocks, isn’t going anywhere.
With one hand, I unzip his pants. He takes one hand off of me and leads my fingers to his steel pipe of a cock, and I accept the invitation. We don’t speak—we can’t—we haven’t even come up to breathe. We’ve never been great at communication between the two of us. So why ruin what could feel so fucking good?
I pump his cock, starting at the base all the way to the tip of it. I slide back down using the lubrication of the precum while taking his balls and lightly squeezing them. He handles my cock with the roughness I’d expect from him, and fuck does the friction feel like I may come before he can manhandle me a little bit more. The thought has me ramping up the speed on his dick. His moans mix with mine, and I’m frantic to cause him as much pleasure as my two hands can.
I love the sounds of his desire, and without thinking, I pull away, and our crazed eyes watch each other as we catch our breath. This is insane, so fucking crazy, or maybe it’s the fact we could have been killed last night that flashes through my mind, causing me to go for what I want right now.
I’m about to ask him if he’s ready to come but I don’t want to spoil the mood. Words are what always cause us the most grief.
He doesn’t speak, and I remove his hand from me because I can’t make him come if his hand is still on my cock. He complies, and I’m shocked, but if my hand on his dick feels anything like his on mine, then he’s enjoying the fruits of my labor. The cries of his upcoming release are obvious, and I watch his erection when he jerks back and forth as if he’s trying to ride this out for every bit of pleasure. His body begins to spasm, and I watch his face. Fuck, he’s handsome. I always knew he was good-looking, but his cock in my hand and the orgasm that only I can give him now make it all the more real.
“Come,” I demand, and ropes of cum shoot upward, blanketing my skin. Our eyes meet like we’re giving the other permission to let this happen between us. He rolls me over, and suddenly he’s on top of me. It’s when I realize he’s not simply returning the hand job I’d given, not when he scoots down my legs and slides my pants off of me, dropping his head to my eager cock. My sworn enemy since the age of eight is about to deep throat me, and something about this makes me happy, so fucking delirious. I’m smiling in a goofy ass grin, so fucking sappy it almost hurts.
His warm mouth envelopes the tip of my cock, and he swirls his tongue around it. I take in a deep breath, releasing it slowly as his lips wrap around all of me. His mouth is like a suction and starts working me up and down quickly. It’s so different from the slow, methodical pulls I used with my hand, but this is all or nothing with Xan, and it’s how he lives his life. I’m not surprised. His hand moves to my balls, and he almost tickles them slightly. I love everything about this, the way his mouth attacks my cock, every once in a while, using his teeth ever so softly. It all creates so much desire for him that I have no choice. As much as I try to hold back, I can’t, not anymore. I don’t break our vow of silence but explode in his mouth. It’s a lot, so fucking much. He pulls off of my cock, a smirk on his face, as he shows me he’s visibly swallowing everything of me.
Now what? How do we get past the next part? Will it be denial or acceptance of what we both shared? His face turns ashen white, and he dismounts from the bed without falling over me. The door to the bathroom slams shut. Denial it is.
17
XANDER
What did we just do? I hated the guy up until yesterday morning—that is until his beautifully defined body clouded my judgment. I really hate the man. Or I hated him until we had to rely on one another to live, and we’re not out of the woods, both metaphorically and physically speaking.
I pull for an extra hand towel. There aren’t many blankets, but they have a plethora of hand towels in a cabinet. From the outside window, the darkness ascends on me. Opening the door from the bathroom, I pass Clark. What do I say? How do I act? I had his cock in my mouth less than ten minutes ago. I toss him a hand towel to clean up but don’t say anything. He hides his eyes from me but grabs the towel anyway.
I find the house is full of quietness where ten minutes ago we were groaning, moaning, and fuck, I was begging him. I take the bowl he’d left on the counter, along with mine, and begin to wash them.
“Do you even know how to wash dishes?” Clark asks from the couch as he looks for his discarded clothes.
“Yes, asshole, I know how to take a washcloth with a little dish soap, scrub all the food off and then rinse it with water.” My return isn’t a tease.
“I guess we’re not going to talk about this, then?” he asks, not turning toward me, though I recognize the slump of his shoulders anywhere. He’s defeated. I care, a little too much and it’s the only reason I respond. Somehow, I worry about his feelings but I don’t know how to express my own. And I revert to default when it comes to the two of us. Yes, I can admit when I’m in asshole mode. It’s fully activated.
“You’re the one who wanted to keep our relationship as is, Farmer. You want an enemy, you got one.”
