Chapter 9 DIEGO
The conversation was flirtier, lighter for the rest of the meal, and by the time we got home, we were back in our usual banter mode.
Shortcake hopped up on the arm of the couch—facing away, so she could be with us but still acknowledge that I’d been gone an unacceptable amount of time today.
Taran took the other arm, leaning into it, and I leaned against him and stretched my legs over the remaining cushion.
I buried my face in his neck and breathed deeply.
He was just a little sweaty and grassy from being outside all day, a smell like summer sunshine.
All fucking week, I’d been deliciously tortured by memories of his hands on my skin and his lips against mine; the way he played me like we’d never stopped hooking up, like we’d been at this for nine years instead of a month and some change.
He took a long, deep breath, almost a sigh but not quite, and I rose and fell with his chest. I kissed his neck, then his broad shoulder through the tight-stretched fabric of his t-shirt. “You okay, babe?”
“Very. Thanks for coming today.” He kissed my temple and slid his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him even tighter. “You were a big hit.”
Not gonna lie, I’d loved every fucking minute. At first, I tried not to enjoy the attention it got from his co-workers, seeing us together. But they turned out to be cool as hell—especially in Bettina’s case; what a fucking character—so I just gave in and enjoyed myself all day.
Dinner had gotten a little emotional. I felt bad about digging that hard into his scars—no, wounds, since they clearly hadn’t healed. But it had also made me feel a lot better about some things, important things, and he seemed okay with it…
Except now I had my hand on his belly and he wasn’t responding the way he usually did when I snuggled up close and started sniffing him like a dog in heat.
“I like Bettina,” I said.
“She likes you too. She’s probably an actual friend, at this point.”
“Those boudoir photos of hers…” I fanned myself with my free hand.
He laughed. “You saw them?”
“You haven’t? She acted like you had!”
“No!” I laughed even harder. “That’d be—weird. We work together!”
“She didn’t wanna see the one of you in your sweats, either,” I admitted. “I did show her mine in the skirt though.”
“Okay, so I’m officially friends with Bettina then.”
“Kyle seems cool too, in that straight white way.”
“Yeah, exactly.” He squeezed me tight and kissed my forehead.
I pulled back, sliding my hand up to his chest, and watched his eyes. “You tired?”
He nodded. “You mind if we just stay like this a while? Maybe watch something?”
I kept watching for a long, quiet moment, wondering if he was lying to save my feelings.
If I’d really upset him or hurt him or just dug too deep into things he wasn’t ready to unearth.
It was fucking unfair that a man could be that beautiful and also have layers and layers of fascinating personality, frankly.
I’d promised Toni I’d take it slow and easy. For my own sake. But every goddamn time I saw him made it harder and harder not to just… jump.
When he didn’t break the silence, I leaned up, kissed him quickly, and grabbed the remote off the end table. “What should we watch? Do we wanna marathon something this weekend?”
Not gonna lie, I was really looking forward to having an actual weekend with him. Two nights where neither of us had to get up and go anywhere in the morning? What fucking luxury.
“Hitchcock?” he asked.
“No, let’s do something less harrowing. What about The Lord of the Rings?” I suggested. He’d been appalled that I’d never seen all three of the extended cuts back-to-back.
“Really?” He quirked a smile.
“Yes, really, you nerd. Are they streaming somewhere?”
“For sure.”
I found them quickly, and as I was queueing up the first one, he said, “Can we lay down? Just here, not in bed.”
I scooted to the edge of the couch, and he draped his entire six-foot-long, beautiful body across it, then held out his arms. I slotted into him, little spooning, and he pulled me tight against him. He spread his fingers wide, pressing into my chest, and held me tight.
I burrowed back into him and hit play. By the end of Galadriel’s creepy little intro, Shortcake had caught the improved vibe and she turned around to face us.
Or the screen. She was basically a goblin, so probably that.
***
I must’ve dreamed of him, because before I even opened my eyes, I was fully hard and ready to fuck. The TV was dark—he’d either turned it off after I passed out somewhere after Khazad Dum, or the whole setup had just gone to sleep. It was quiet outside though, still dark, middle of the night.
I arched my back experimentally, and fuck yeah, that was a nice, fat hard-on in his pants too. It pressed into the back of my thigh, so I wriggled downward to angle my ass against it.
He nuzzled my hair, slid his hand beneath my crop top, then over my belly. He moved sleepily, murmuring something I didn’t understand, as if half-asleep. I kept rocking my hips and arching to rub him off—and myself a little, though it was just against the extra tight, constraining denim.
His large, warm hand slipped lower, and he cupped my hard cock through the material, rubbing the length of it up and down.
Into my ear, he gave a little moan that was so hungry it made me shiver.
My belly hollowed out, my balls tightened, and a sudden urge to scream or cry or run until I threw up tore through my body.
“Please,” I whispered into the dark. “Please, I fucking need you.”
It felt so good to say it, like something raw and ragged ripped out of my heart.
Taran on his knees pulling me apart bit by bit, Taran holding me in his lap and arms until I came back to myself, Taran in his kitchen making me pasta and bread and all the other good things I never allowed myself, Taran looking vulnerable at the table as he confessed his deepest feelings into my keeping like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I fucking needed him. I thought I was in love with him when we were kids, but now I really and truly needed him, and this was when I got to say it, to express it, and still keep myself safe from this disaster, this ghost supreme.
I reached up and behind myself to feel his face. His glasses were gone—he must’ve put them on the table, and he licked my fingers as they slipped over his lips. I buried my hand in his hair and pulled. “Lemme get the—”
“I got it.” He shifted up onto one elbow and reached for the table.
I shoved my pants and underwear down around my thighs, then started working on his fly. We somehow managed to kick our clothes down around our ankles without coming too far apart.
It wasn’t always like this. Mostly we took our time, sometimes we were funny or sweet or silly about foreplay.
But not that first time, in his bed, and not tonight.
He slicked his fingers with lube and pressed them into my hole, and I arched to open up for him.
The gel warmed quickly between us as he toyed with me, sliding fingertips inside, stretching me out, then curling and making me squirm.
“Please,” I huffed, voice cracking. “Fuck me. Please, Taran.”
He readjusted behind me, probably slicking his cock too, and then pressed his dickhead against my hole.
Heat radiated out from it, soothing the ache in my belly and balls.
Then I pushed down, relaxing. With a slowness, a sense of control that nearly drove me out of my fucking mind, he buried his hot, fat cock inside me.
I lit up inside, arching harder and hungrier against him, so he flattened his hand against my belly to hold me still.
“You okay?” he asked.
I shivered again and huffed, “Yes. Yeah. Please.”
“Shhh,” he whispered against the shell of my ear. “I got you.”
I made a sound disturbingly like a whimper, trying to hold still, trying not to fuck myself on him like I was dying to.
I felt full to bursting, like one of those hentai boys getting dicked down so hard their belly bulged with it.
The heat and stretch of it teetered on that knife’s edge between pleasure and pain.
“God, your dick is so good.” I buried my hand in his hair and tugged.
He held me close, showering kisses on my neck and shoulder, and fucked me with maddening deliberation, balls deep.
I closed my eyes and, for the first time with him, just let him take me at his own pace.
He built a rhythm, deep thrusts and slow pulls rubbing my insides into a frenzy, so I felt like I was dripping every time his fat head grazed my prostate.
My dribbling cock bounced against my thigh, the couch, my belly, and I whined and moaned and begged wordlessly for more, and more, and more.
His breaths against my skin became moans and grunts, his fingertips dug into my hips, and I gasped as I started to feel the world collapse around me.
He wrapped his hand around my cock, rubbed his thumb into the slit of it, collecting precum.
I wanted to fuck his hand, but I stayed loose; he squeezed, massaged in time with his thrusts.
I gave a pitiful little “ohhhhh, fuck,” higher-pitched than I knew I was capable of, and then shuddered and came.
Cum hit my belly, my chest, dripped onto the couch as I vibrated from the inside out around his thick, talented cock.
I gasped for air, and he started to pull out. I said, “No. No, don’t. Stay. Please stay.”
He let out a long sigh, like he’d been holding his breath. He bit at my earlobe and growled, “Diego… fuck, baby…”
I arched, giving an experimental squeeze with my insides. Still a little weak, but in a good way. “Keep going. Keep going as long as you want.”
He moved slowly again, like before, carefully. Buried himself balls deep again, so the after-ache in me went sharp and sudden.
I breathed through it and reached around to grab his ass, encouraging. “As hard as you want,” I added. “I’m yours.”