Chapter 11 #2
Of course. It makes so much sense that my body heeds that kinship quicker than I do, and the embrace Sab pulls me into cements the link to the reason I’m still here to enjoy it.
He hugs me like he did a few weeks back.
It seems impossible I feel it more this time around, but that’s what happens.
I sink deeper and deeper into it until I’m not sure who I was before I met him or Nurse Bhodi.
I drown in it, and the only way to save myself is to fuse my mouth to the delicate skin of Sab’s throat.
I sink my teeth in, not biting, just there, all pressure and claiming, until I move to another sensitive line on his neck, brushing my lips over his skin with enough friction to have him shivering against me, over and over as I don’t let up.
Until he groans and threads his hands into my hair. “Putain…ouais…Tu me fais perdre la tête, Galen…”
I don’t need a translator to know he’s telling me what I’m doing to him feels good.
It’s in every shudder and sharp inhale. Every press of his body against mine, hard muscle and the solid bulge lengthening in his worn jeans.
The way he utters my name like a prayer as I keep the bite shy of pain.
As I lean into him with force and the energy I’m giving off. “You wanna get more comfortable?”
Sab hums.
I take it as an affirmative and back off enough to let him lose his shoes. Then I lead him to the living space that’s lit with the sole Christmas decoration I currently own—a clay lantern with cut-out stars casting a warm glow that makes the sparsely furnished space seem cosier than it is.
The radio’s on from when I came home, crooning out mellow indie rock and there’s a blanket on the couch because my sister put one there when she passed through a year ago.
“You wanna drink?”
Sab doesn’t answer. Just stares at me in the soft light.
I reach for the hem of his shirt. “No coat?”
“I didn’t know I was coming until I was here.”
He’s coming. I’ll make sure of it.
But not yet.
I strip him of his shirt and skate my hands over his warm skin, leaving contradictory goosebumps in my wake.
The light touch has him shivering again, and then I kiss him, and it’s nothing like the first time I claimed his mouth. That he claimed mine in return. This time, the runaway train has a destination, and though I’m in no hurry to get there, I’m not stopping unless he asks me to.
He doesn’t.
I get him on the couch. On his back, beneath me, and he lets me roam his body and explore every inch of that skin as I slowly toss our clothes aside, teaching myself a lesson in control while my cock aches for more.
Underwear winds up the last barrier between us, but the thin cotton doesn’t hide much.
Sab bucks into me, his olive skin sheened with sweat. I grind back, stretching the tension.
Then I slip a hand between us and grip him, squeezing, grazing my fingers from base to tip. “You ready to lose these?”
The boxers.
Sab swallows hard and I cup his jaw, the way I’ve come to learn grounds him when my dirty mouth gets away from me.
“Just my hands.” I punctuate the whisper with a kiss. “I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”
His eyes blaze at me. “I know that.”
“Won’t stop me saying it again. And this can stop, anytime you want.”
He doesn’t want to stop. Even if I couldn’t see the raw mess I’ve made of him so far, I feel it in him. And I love it, this slow march to oblivion. The parts of him he’s letting me see. The reminder there’s more to sex than getting off and whose dick goes where.
This is sex.
My mouth on his skin and his fingers digging into mine.
My hand wrapped around his jaw.
The knife edge we both balance on before he nods and reaches for my goddamn underwear.
He slides them over my hips, pushing them down, using his foot to free my legs. Only then does he allow himself to drag his gaze up to look at me.
At my dick.
He wets his lips, but I don’t give him long to overthink it. I strip his underwear too, leaving him bare, and then it’s me who needs a moment as I drink him in. I’m no size queen, but Sab’s cock is fecking beautiful.
Hard.
Heavy.
Thick.
I’m ruined just looking at him, and the need to touch him consumes me.
He’s still on his back. I settle to the side and let my fingertips trace the line of him, watching him jolt as if I’ve shocked him.
Easy.
But I don’t let the murmur fly free. I curl my fingers, ghosting around his length with enough pressure to make him groan and strain for more. To speak fervent French words that make my own cock ache with need.
I wrap my hand around him for real, trying not to carve a hole in his hip. Up the pressure and Sab’s whole body bows from the couch.
“Putain.” His hand flies to my arm. “You’re going to make me come.”
“I know. But not yet.”
He doesn’t believe me, I can tell. But he gives in to the slow climb I take him on, sounds that are half moan, half prayer slipping from him every other breath, still clutching my arm as if I’m tethering him to his entire existence.
He’s so hot and rigid in my fist. So responsive and beautiful. As much as I’m living to see him come apart, I don’t want this to be over.
So I long it out, edging him until he’s sweating and panting, and I’m so wound up I’m a heartbeat from saying fuck it and riding that big dick. A heartbeat that pulses out of reach as his thighs fall open and draw me in as if we’re already fucking, and other subtle cues take root in my brain.
I change the pace, testing the loose theory. Slowing to a rhythm that has to be maddening for him.
Sab moans and screws his eyes shut, every limb trembling, his whole body pleading for more.
But he doesn’t take it for himself. He waits, trusting me to give him what he needs, as if he already knows how good surrender feels, and he’s so gorgeous like this, the need to see him shatter gains new wings.
I bring him to the edge again, sliding my free hand behind his head to hold him there. To sink my teeth into his throat as he tumbles over the abyss.
He finally breaks, and it’s wild.
Messy.
Violent, almost, with his head thrown back, trembling as he spills hot and wet over my hand, a raw sound scraping from his lungs.
“Merde.” Sab gasps for breath, body still jerking as I work him through every last shock and pulse. “I’m fucking dead. Tu m’as tué.”
“You’re not dead.”
“I—fuck. Fuck.”
Sab’s got nothing. I give him a minute, wiping my hand on a towel fortuitously folded on the arm of the couch. I’m still so hard I can’t think straight, arousal a potent beat in every muscle and nerve.
I try to rein it in.
Calm down.
Careful remember?
I remember. But when I look at Sab again, when we lock eyes, he’s gazing at me with the same shock and awe I feel coursing in my blood, and if I didn’t know before that we’ve barely scratched the surface of this living, breathing inferno between us, I do now.
He takes a slow breath and I’m obsessed with his body. The strong lines of muscle and dusting of dark hair. The sheen of sweat I want to lick from his skin.
I’m so engrossed I don’t hear the music shift to a fecking Christmas tune. I don’t notice him move, until his hand trails down my stomach and he grips me in his work-hardened palm.
That first touch.
Holy Mary, it wrecks me.
Heat punches through my veins so hard I groan, and I grab his wrist just to hold on. “You don’t have to—”
“Chut.”
Sab soothes the ache in my cock with eye-rolling pressure. He finds my gaze and shows me all the nerves and uncertainty he arrived with have been burned away by something else.
Something brighter.
Something better.
It’s pure want and the surety it fuels blindsides me. The instinct. The hunger. The privilege that of all the fellas in the world he could’ve done this with, he’s chosen me.
I let go of his wrist and hold onto the back of the couch instead. Track his hand as he explores me and quickly finds the spots that have me tipping my head back, jaw unhinging.
Damn.
If this is his practice run, if I’m ever lucky enough to have him like this again, I won’t see next Christmas. I’ll be dead in the ground, my obliterated nerves crumbled to dust in my withered body, only a smile on my face to show for the agonising ride he’s taking me on.
The slide of his palm.
The twist of his skilled wrist.
The drag of his thumb that has me pitching forward, cursing against his shoulder as he takes me to pieces.
Guttural.
Unfiltered.
I can’t fecking cope.
I can’t endure.
Not against this, and release tears through me with little warning, wrenching a hoarse shout from my lungs.
I spill into his fist, jerking in his grip. And I come a lot, slicking his hand as aftershocks batter me, my face still buried in his sweet-scented skin. “Fuck…boyo. I wasn’t ready for that.”
Sab rubs my back, soothing me, and…I like it.
I lean harder against him and take a deeper breath, and only the need to check on him has me pulling back to find his gaze.
To find him, as his eyes catch mine, hooded and heavy, a glow in them that roots me in place, fresh heat sparking low in my stomach as I feel him long and thick against my leg.
He’s hard again.
Already.
Christ.
Am I the luckiest bloke in the world or has Christmas come early?