Chapter Eighteen
Flynn looked amused. Fascinated, and amused.
“Are you hitting on me, Oli Carter?”
I glanced down, pointedly.
Part of me was embarrassed, to be standing here so obviously aroused while Flynn - fully clothed, still - stared at me. Yet there was something powerful in that, too; something that shivered in unexpected delight, at the clear lust I could see in his expression.
“Coy doesn’t suit you,” I told him.
He grinned. “And what does suit me?”
“You looked pretty good last time, by the end of things.”
I wasn’t sure if he realized he was biting his lip. Wondered if he was remembering how it’d felt: looking up at me as I straddled his legs and stroked myself. How he’d flinched as I’d toppled over the edge, the orgasm wrenching me.
“Bedroom,” I repeated, then smiled at his shaky nod.
#
I stiffened - well, more of me stiffened, beyond the obvious - when he stood and moved closer. Thought for a moment that Flynn meant to kiss me; only to feel his arm slip around my waist instead, hugging my body to him.
A gasp, escaping me through lips I thought squeezed tightly shut: from surprise, and the press of my erection into his hip, as he lifted me. Turning us both, his shoes crunching on the shard-crisped floor, and carrying me to the relative safety of the hallway.
I stumbled back as he released me. Wide-eyed and breathing hard, as if I’d run up all the stairs in this fancy apartment building. The tension in my chest only increasing when I looked down to see the dark patch, where I’d left slick trails across his jeans.
Flynn’s eyes followed, smile spreading as he realized what I was staring at. “Is that because of me?”
It was wrong, some part of my brain screamed, for him to talk about me like this. So crudely; so bluntly. Memories bubbling up, of how he’d tease me as a child: Flynn’s confidence always feeling so brash compared to my own stillness.
Only I was twenty-six now, very nearly twenty-seven.
And beyond the ghosts in me that wanted to cringe away, there was the Oli that heard the rasp of lust in his friend’s voice, and saw the way his pupils had swollen into inky pools.
Who’d felt Flynn’s own hardness in those few, fleeting moments as he carried me from the kitchen.
We weren’t kids any more.
I forced my shoulders to relax, my jaw to soften. Coy didn’t suit me, either.
“If it’s because of you,” I told him, “you have to take care of it.”
“There you go, threatening me with a good time.” He was still humming assent as he dropped to his knees in front of me.
Hands on my hips, perhaps to steady himself, perhaps because Flynn feared I might pull away at the last moment.
Force denial upon him, as he’d once forced it upon himself.
Dipping his face to nuzzle into the crease of my groin; press his nose against me, as though to worm his way between my thighs.
A reverence to it, albeit one shot through with growing hunger.
I gasped when his lips found me. Brushing, smooth and warm, and then his tongue extending to lavish a long, slow stroke along me. Mouth opening at that final moment.
And then the heat of him, the wet, squeezing, sucking embrace. A pleasure which threatened to shake my legs from under me, my hands in Flynn’s hair as I clung and squirmed. Bracing my bare shoulders on the wall.
His groan of pleasure sent vibrations shuddering through me. Amplified as he gulped me down further; until I could feel his lips brush my skin, and some haze of triumph in his narrowed eyes as he stared up.
There was no way to hold back my whimper as he began working on me in earnest. Hungry and relentless: an inversion of any dominance I might’ve felt, having him on his knees at my feet.
I was panting when he finally pulled off. Trying desperately to catch my breath again.
“Bedroom,” he demanded, and seemed content with my shaky nod of compliance.
Flynn stripped as he went; shirt, and jeans, and finally shoving down his briefs just before he sat down on the edge of the mattress. Pulling me to him by my waist, forcing me to kneel across his thighs as he guided me back between his lips.
Only now, my legs splayed across his own, his hands had far more liberty.
Fingers skating around the curve of my ass; squeezing my cheeks, gently at first, but then harder, more eagerly.
Flynn simultaneously groping me as he urged my hips into faster strokes, and then the gasp - escaping me without hope of stopping it - as he brushed my ass and I knew - a bright, burning kernel of awareness - that my childhood friend was going to fuck me.
Each pump of my hips saw me grinding back harder against his hands, his fingertips bolder and more aggressive.
Sweat and spit enough, as I hugged Flynn’s head to me while my eyes rolled back.
My body softening to him, to his focussed intent: not rough but unapologetic, as though my compliance was a foregone conclusion.
Trusting that I’d protest if I disagreed, even if his tongue was stealing my ability to speak with its devious lapping.
He fought the cinch of my arms to pull back. One hand stroking me, while he stared up with a messy grin.
“I like the noises you make.”
“Shut up,” I told him, blushing. Cuffed him across the side of the head, though Flynn’s smile remained undimmed.
He leaned in, to lick me like a popsicle. Smirking at my grunt in response.
“Can I eat your ass?”
I stuck out my tongue. “I dunno, can you?”
Flynn chuckled. “Wise-guy.”
I probably should’ve expected him to unbalance me, to topple me over on the bed. After all, we’d roughhoused enough as kids that I had plenty of experience with Flynn’s dirty tactics.
He rolled onto me, straddling my legs while I was still grunting with the surprise of it. “Fuck, you look delicious.”
I was mustering my outraged protest when he bent and licked across me. All words gone, then; fled from my brain, as the sparks of pleasure reverberated up my spine.
He wasn’t my first, but he was definitely my best. Tongue digging, fingers pulling and stroking. Teasing my shivering flesh one moment, then fiercely overwhelming me the next.
“Come on,” I grunted, voice muffled as I clawed at the sheets and drooled fit to soak them. Infuriated by his chuckle in response, only to instantly lose the thread of my frustration when the vibrations of that laugh strummed me in new, fascinating directions.
I wanted to look back, to see what exactly I was about to get willingly skewered with, only the muscles in my body weren’t responding. Little I could do, in fact, beyond writhe from his focused attentions.
The mattress shifted; I heard the scrape of the nightstand drawer. The rasp of foil tearing. Managed to turn my whimper of frustration into a grunt at the last minute, as his fingers were replaced with the cold trickle of lube.
“Come on...”
Flynn chuckled. “I can’t lie, I love seeing you like this. All needy and desperate, instead of that infuriating Oli self-discipline.”
At some point, I knew, I’d have to ask him what the hell he meant by that. Some other time, though, when my brain was capable of stringing more than two words together.
“Come on!” It was practically a curse.
And then a moment later, I got my wish.
“Fuck, you’re tight.”
Anything beyond his grunting exclamation lost to the cough of my surprise. Not like I’d never bottomed before - even if it was the exception, not the rule - and yet nothing quite prepared you for that sensation, that shocking intimacy.
No pain, though; Flynn’s devious mouth, and tongue, and fingers having worked their magic well. Disbelief only truly setting in when I felt his weight pressing atop me.
“You feel so good.” The praise delivered so close to my ear, I could feel Flynn’s breath brush me.
I reached back, clinging to his neck. Not confident I could muster words, not yet.
He wanted more, though.
“Ask me for it, Oli.”
It was a grumbling noise, frustration, bubbling up from the depths of my chest. I didn’t want conversation, not now.
“I need you to ask for it,” Flynn pushed.
“Come on,” I managed, falling back on the familiar.
He chuckled, lips mashed against my skin. His heat like a blanket draped around me.
“Asshole,” I hissed; ignored his noise of amusement. “Fuck me.”
“Ask nicely, Oli,” he scolded.
I squeezed his neck, hard enough to bruise. “Fuck me, now.”
A laugh, and then he churned his hips - a slow, lazy circle - and it felt like my mind melted.
Stretching, and pulling, and filling, and the weight and the scent of him, all conspiring to drain anything from my skull bar the desperate need for that friction to continue.
Trying to spread my legs wider, to open myself further to him, as if that might amplify sensations that were already borderline insufferable.
Flynn barely moving, and yet no way for me not to squirm beneath him.
His teeth nipped, just slightly, at the curve of my ear. “Here’s the deal, Oli.” The words sounded thick, Flynn’s voice clotted with lust. “First it’s my turn. And then, the next time, you’re gonna show me how you made William feel.”
I couldn’t say I disliked either suggestion. The fact that his movements had paused while he spoke, though, was unforgivable.
“Focus,” I told him, slapping him on the side of the head.
Flynn laughed, and then he taught me the problem with hubris.
I hissed as his hips slapped down on me. Squeezing me against the mattress, driving the air from my lungs and what muddled thoughts remained from my brain. Nothing in my life bar the mashing together of our bodies.
“God, you feel good.”
The curse muttered almost grudgingly; anger in Flynn’s tone, somehow. One arm around my neck, now, clamped against my throat as he chased better leverage despite our sweating skin.
Part of me wanted to see his face, to watch the expressions on it shift and change like storm clouds as his orgasm approached.
To match the twist of his lips, the narrowing of his eyes, the way his nostrils flared, with how he felt on top and inside of me.
A map, shifting by the moment, of how pleasure and need changed my oldest friend; how it showed itself, how it co-opted his body now that I’d helped crack that veneer of self-control.
Instead I rocked beneath him, drooling across Flynn’s arm as I felt the heat and friction build.
A hair’s breadth from my own climax, too, even with the sheets’ scant friction, and yet I could make do, fill in what gaps remained.
Brain and body working in tandem, even if the former’s contribution was a gleeful self-satisfaction, a sense that I’d won, somehow.
“Don’t hold back, asshole,” I spat, the words uneven through lips that felt numb, and then there was nothing but his roar at my ear.
I wanted to believe I could feel it. That my exhausted, overwhelmed body was still sufficiently attuned to sense the moment it became too much for him, too good.
And then his arm tightened around my neck, squeezing us together even as his hips churned through the dregs of his orgasm. “Your turn, fucker,” Flynn spat at me.
It was enough.
My body almost vibrating as the pleasure rippled through me. Whimpering and twisting as I ground myself into the sheets.
Gradually, by degrees, my muscles softened. Flynn’s hold on me easing, too. Until he was merely draped across me, not clinging to me, his face buried in the nape of my neck.
“Am I too heavy?” His voice muffled, soft against the ringing in my ears.
I shook my head, fascinated by the way his nose and lips felt against my skin as I did it.
“We should...” he started. Beginning to move, to shift atop me.
Hurriedly, I reached back. Lacing my fingers through the sweaty tangle of his hair. “Just... just a minute more, okay?”
I’d never really felt the afterglow before.
Or, at least, never paused to savor it. I’d had good sex - great sex, borderline-acrobatic sex - with guys, but the mental shutters always came down fast. Still polite, often still affectionate, but everyone knew it was a ticking clock. Meet up, get off, get out.
It wasn’t even like I’d wanted different. They’d been hot - or hot enough - but I was under no misapprehension that each encounter had been anything other than physical. Two people wanting release, and part of that release was knowing you didn’t have to stick around afterwards.
Which made the tiny kernel of worry deep in my chest all the more unnerving. The one which was afraid that Flynn would roll off me, and say something trite about how it’d been fun, and expect us to fall into those usual, post-hookup grooves.
“So, you’re a cuddler,” he mused, softly.
“Shut up,” I scolded, before he could laugh at me, too.
I felt his chuckle more than I heard it. His chest slipping against my back, as Flynn stretched languidly.
“I hate to say it, but I need to pee,” he added.
The grunt of annoyance came out before I could stop it. “Way to ruin a moment, asshole.”
He carefully peeled himself off me, laying on his side as I rolled, gingerly, out of the wet patch I’d created.
“What?” I demanded, realizing he was showing no signs of getting up.
“So we were having ‘a moment’ just then?”
I could feel my face reddening. “Go use the bathroom, idiot.”
Flynn stared at me, long enough that I had to glance away. Then - just as I was about to repeat my instruction, with a little more ire attached - he leaned in to quickly land a kiss on my forehead.
“You’re cute.”
I goggled at his naked back, lost for words, as he sauntered into the bathroom and nudged the door closed with his foot.