Chapter 6 #2
His thumb. Just Wyatt’s thumb. Just the measured sweep of it, toying with the teasing almost-chill of the wet spot Jesse’s needy cock had made, spreading sticky across the thin cotton stretched over the head of Jesse’s dick, then the slicker slide of Wyatt’s fingers there too, the rough, calloused skin only catching a little now that Jesse’s body was easing the way.
Wyatt tucked his fingertips under the waistband of Jesse’s panties, looking down at Jesse all the while, his question clear.
Jesse nodded desperately. “Please.”
Wyatt’s hand slipped in, and down, and then Jesse’s dick was in Wyatt’s hand. Jesse’s dick. Wyatt’s hand.
“Oh god. Jesus. Fuck.”
Jesse craned his neck again. Still couldn’t see anything, even with the waistband of his panties pulled tight around Wyatt’s wrist.
He knew his junk was tucked away in the cradle of Wyatt’s hand, all of him, root to tip, but Schrodinger’s dick. Jesse didn’t have a cock in that second. He couldn’t see it so it didn’t exist.
Except Jesse could feel it. Fuck, could he feel it.
The skin against his dick wasn’t his own, and that was its own kind of mindfuck. It had been way, way too long since anyone except Jesse had touched Jesse’s dick. But even then, even with his girlfriends and hookups, it had never felt like this. Not ever.
God, some guy cupping his dick and Jesse was bricked up like concrete. Just cupping him. Not even squeezing him, not jerking him, not teasing him even at all. So why the fuck did it feel so good?
And why the fuck did Jesse keep asking questions he already knew the answer to? Not some guy.
It was Wyatt.
“Fuck,” Jesse ground out. His voice sounded crazy, cracking and giving and pitching way too high, no controlling it.
No controlling Jesse either. He shifted his hips, clumsy and out of time, dragging his throbbing dick across the span of Wyatt’s palm.
Jesse was slicked up with precum, but even then Wyatt’s hand was a little rough and a little dry and everything was a little dry, and it shouldn’t have felt as much as it did — but it did. It did.
And Jesse was so, so close to coming. He yanked at Wyatt’s wrist in panic. Not now, not yet.
Wyatt eased up. He took Jesse’s hip in hand instead, squeezing there reflexively, both of them looking down to where Jesse’s cock was straining up against the darkened cotton of his panties.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Jesse was panting hard, hauling in air. His heart was beating crazy fast. His dick kicked, and the sight of it drew a low sound from the back of Wyatt’s throat.
“Jesus, Jess.”
Then the weight of him was bearing Jesse down onto the mattress, and both of them groaned as the bulge in Wyatt’s pants pressed snug against Jesse’s own hard-on.
Wyatt didn’t move, not for a long second. He didn’t grind down. Just held himself there, his gaze pinging between the solid, shadowed press of their bodies and Jesse’s mouth and Jesse’s eyes.
He’d kicked off his boots, but he was dressed still, the requisite flannel and heavy cargo pants, and the ripstop was thick and a little rough, and the perfect hit of friction against the thin cotton of Jesse’s panties.
Jesse was whining before Wyatt even started moving. When he did move, in a heavy, measured grind, Jesse was already pretty close to crying out from how good it felt.
Then not pretty close. All the way there and moaning wild with it.
“God, bud.”
Wyatt’s hand held tight to Jesse’s forehead, holding Jesse there, not letting Jesse tip his head back to escape the weight of Wyatt’s gaze, growing as heavy as the grind of his hips.
They were both gasping, sharing air, and heat, and that perfect friction, and it was too much. It was way, way too much, and Jesse never wanted it to stop.
But something had to give.
“Wyatt, I need— You gotta—” Jesse was halfway delirious from the grind, his words fumbling and thick on his tongue. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. Everything had boiled down to sensation.
Wyatt leaned back a little. Just enough to hook a thumb under the waistband of Jesse’s panties.
To tug them all the way down and leave them there, caught up around Jesse’s calf, tangled with the slouched fall of his sock.
The sight got Jesse gasping even harder, the slutty right-wrongness of it all.
“Fuck,” Wyatt whispered under his breath, outta breath. “Fuck, Jesus.” His hands, usually so steady, were fumbling a little with the buttons of his fly.
Jesse had to help him out, his own hands shaking but getting there, giving Wyatt enough space to pull down on the waistband of his own shorts, just enough to get his dick out, the perfect flop of it.
Too thick and heavy to rear up, but heavy enough to slap down onto Jesse’s belly, to nestle there a second on the softness below his belly button.
“Oh fuck,” Jesse gasped out, moaning with the feeling and the thought and the promise.
He was frantic suddenly, shifting his hips under Wyatt’s missing weight, trying so mindlessly and desperately to snug Wyatt’s bare cock up against his own again — beside it even, on top, freaking crisscross applesauce.
Anything. He needed anything.
“God, Jess,” Wyatt ground out. He got a big hand to Jesse’s hip and pushed him down to the sheets, held him there and still. He gave Jesse his weight again and his cock, and that perfect, heavy, sweat-slick grind. “That’s it, bud, that’s it. You take what you need. I got you, sweetheart.”
He did. He really fucking did. The sounds tearing out of Jesse, no permission from his brain or his mouth, were legit mewls. Little whines and whimpers that were so fucking embarrassing, but he couldn’t stop.
God, he just couldn’t. And he didn’t fucking want to.
Jesse grabbed Wyatt’s shoulders tight and held on. It was all he had left in him to do. Everything except his grasping hands had turned hot, but hot like liquid, like syrup, a couple degrees short of burning him up.
Because Jesse was bubbling up from the inside out, the heat like a line of fire rushing down his spine, straight to his core, to his aching balls, to the pulse throbbing hard in his dick and his ears and in every tiny little vein, if healthy veins could even have a palpable pulse.
Inevitable. Fucking undeniable, with the thick line of Wyatt’s cock frotting up against his own, the weight of Wyatt’s bulk holding him down, and the weight of — god, fuck — Wyatt’s balls sliding hot and heavy along the achingly hard line of Jesse’s achingly hard cock.
Everything was sweaty and slick and perfect. Jesse was shamefully sticky already with the spill of his own precum, a constant beading of it, and from Wyatt’s now too, a heavier musk.
The feel of it overwhelmed him. Jesse was somewhere else for a while. Only came back to himself on the feeling of Wyatt’s hand wrapping across his forehead again, pushing back Jesse’s sweaty hair and tipping up his chin.
One second — one crazy, cracked-out second — and Jesse was sure that Wyatt was gonna lean down for a kiss. Jesse’s lips parted on instinct, and Wyatt tracked the movement, his eyes dark, his breath short, his hips rutting hard.
Please.
But the moment snapped when another noise Jesse couldn’t help broke from the back of his throat. It was a whine, but it wasn’t just that. It was too needy to be just a whine. A whimper, then. Fuck. Wyatt had Jesse whimpering for his cock like a slut, and Jesse freaking loved it.
“You like that?” Wyatt asked, adding mindreader to the resume. His voice was the opposite of a whimper. Solid, hard edged, way too in control for how outta control Jesse felt. “You like my cock rubbing up on you, bud?”
“God.” Jesse tipped back his head, exposing his neck on instinct.
“Big fucking cock,” he whispered, kinda inane but a whole lot reverent, concentrating on the feel of Wyatt all over him.
The heat, the bulk, the weight — Jesse was already a little floaty again, lost in the syrup-slow heat of his arousal. “Love it so fucking bad.”
“I know you do, sweetheart.”
The smile in Wyatt’s voice, the deadass gentleness, it unlocked something in Jesse. Made him sink down into the floatiness, a buzzy inverse. He nodded his agreement against the pillows, against the band of Wyatt’s palm branding his forehead. Nodded desperately. Needed Wyatt to know, to see it.
The huff of Wyatt’s laugh told Jesse he did. He sounded indulgent when he said, “Being good now, huh?”
And something about that, something that didn’t need analyzing even at all, made Jesse’s breath hitch. “I’m always good,” he shot back, whining. He whined and then he moaned, on the next hard rock. “Always— always behave.”
Which was a lie, and they both knew it. But Wyatt didn’t call Jesse on it. Just worked his hips harder and heavier. He had to know how close to the edge Jesse was.
Jesse clawed his hands in Wyatt’s shirt. “Off,” he begged. He wasn’t making a whole lot of sense and he knew it, but sense was kinda beyond him now. He scrabbled at the thick cotton. “Please, I want—”
Skin, and heat, and all of Wyatt. Jesse wanted him so bad.
Wyatt didn’t deny him. He leaned back, shrugged out of his flannel, and Jesse yanked and hauled at the t-shirt underneath until he got bare skin — a whole lot of it.
“Fuck,” Jesse breathed, his hands skimming across Wyatt’s chest, his shoulders, down his arms.
The muscle there was thick and heavy, bulked up by healthy fat. Wasn’t anything gym toned, wasn’t freaking aesthetic — just kinda utilitarian and better for it.
Wyatt’s chest hair was thick too, as salt and pepper as his hair, and trailing thick all the way down over the bulk of his abs, and lower, an inviting line, drawing Jesse’s eyes and his greedy hands.
Greedy as fuck, and scrabbling desperately, pushing down at Wyatt’s pants and his shorts, wanting more — and getting more.
Jesse’s hands were shaking a little when they shaped around the muscle of Wyatt’s glutes, then they were shaking more than a little when Jesse took the thick root of Wyatt’s heavy, hanging cock in his hand.
“God,” Jesse whispered. “Oh my fucking god.”