17. Ryan #2
“Don’t answer that,” he says. With a groan, he winces as he moves closer to slide his leg between mine.
We’re both still naked, so the effect of this particular comfy snuggle is exponentially different.
I can feel a nipple, his cock, the hairs on his leg.
And I can see his entire face. I sweep some of the stuck hair off his forehead.
The love I didn’t allow myself to feel while I was fucking him hits me squarely in the chest. Shit.
It’s more potent than the orgasm, and it totally fucks me up. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He smiles faintly. “Yeah. I’m perfect. Fuck me anytime.”
That coaxes a smile from me, which only broadens his. It’s so stupid. Both of us. Here. Now. Smiling like idiots at each other when neither of us has a clue what the fuck we’re doing.
Just because I fucked him, doesn’t mean I have to say it, but it’s right there, wanting out worse than it’s ever wanted out. But I’m not on drugs, and I am not an idiot. Not for him. Not anymore.
But while I’ve got him, I go ahead and kiss him.
For the second night in a row, I don’t sleep. Whereas the night before last, I got a few stretches of forty-five minutes or so—last night, with Mal wrapped around me, I got nothing. I can account for every minute.
Every breath he took that landed on my neck—every shift of his body against mine. Every erection that lived and died from either his presence or a memory of what we did.
Over his long stretch of uninterrupted sleep, he’s sacrificed exactly zero inches between us.
For every body part that moved away from me, another one got closer.
Now, as dawn is breaking outside the window, he’s practically smothering me.
His surprisingly flexible leg is hitched around my waist, while the straight one is lined up flush with mine.
His chest is resting on my chest, and his head is right next to mine.
His breaths blow through my ear—loud like a thunderstorm.
I’m hot, and I’ve been sweating since he fell asleep.
We’re still on top of the covers—still naked.
The arm of mine he’s more or less trapping is wrapped around his waist, allowing him to stay on top of me, slightly lifted from the bed.
My free arm and hand can’t decide what to do.
There’s been a lot of rubbing my eyes and face.
But I’ve done some touching too. Him for the most part, and occasionally, when I have access to it, my cock.
I haven’t jerked off, but I’ve humored my erections to an extent. Drawing them out, enjoying the warm, tingling sensation of arousal without getting myself to the point of needing release. Mostly, though, I’ve been stroking him. Long, light strokes not meant to rouse him but to remember him.
He’s either a deeper sleeper than he used to be, or sex knocks him out.
When my alarm goes off, he clenches around me. The hug he gives me is suffocating. I reach out to silence my phone on the nightstand and wrap my free arm around him, too.
He moves on top, and fuck me, but I help him get there.
He starts kissing my neck without so much as a good morning.
I slide my hands down his sides, settling on his hips.
This time, my legs are spread to accommodate him.
My latest erection rubs against his, and he makes the most of that position by rocking his body back and forth .
It’s… amazing . I don’t want him to stop.
The only thing that would be better would be if I were inside him again.
I want to feel that again. The way his body seemed to draw me in and reward me for how deep I could get by keeping that outer constriction—like fucking through a glory hole.
A hole that was a bit too small to fit comfortably inside but the tight hold it had on me was fucking everything, and his heat engulfing me— fuck .
I’ve been up all night like I’m trying to prepare a diary entry for it, but the truth of the whole thing is, it was the best sex I’ve ever had—in a physical sense.
The rest—the implications and the emotional turmoil—I was only able to push away for the length of time I was inside him.
The rest of the night has been a wrestling match between the deepening of my sense of entitlement when it comes to my former stepbrother and the lived experience of losing his affection—and worse.
I’ve slept with the enemy—my tormentor in every possible way. The line between love and hate is practically invisible. In any given moment—all night—I’ve found myself on both sides infinite times.
But never once did I want to push him away. And I’m not about to now, either. I’m much more likely to take both our cocks in hand and give us both something to fuck. Together.
“Want you,” he whispers.
“Shower,” I say.
“Mm…no. Now. Here.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m tough.”
“Shower,” I say again.
“Bath.”
“We don’t have time to run a whole bath.”
“Let’s take a sick day.”
“Absolutely not.” I get out from under him in a quick move that has him face planting with a grunt. Then there’s the groan as he gets up and follows me into the bathroom, walking carefully with small steps.
I turn on the shower. If all I had going on was morning wood, I’d take a leak, but while I do try, I can’t manage it.
I’m too turned on. The water can’t get hot fast enough.
While Malcolm is trying to look at his asshole in the mirror, I’m checking the water.
It’s barely warm enough, but I drag him behind the curtain with me. “Worried about your hole?”
“No,” he says with a note of defiance.
“Let me take a look.”
“Ryan—oh shit,” he grunts when I drop to my knees and turn him around.
The warming water is angled down his back, so when I put my mouth on his puffy, red hole, I get a full drink of it.
I put a hand up to block the stream from drowning me as I lick softly at his angry rim.
The light tang of chafed flesh threatens to send me into cannibal territory again, but I tighten my other hand on his thigh, channeling my baser instincts into a show of strength.
He muffles a cry. It sounds like he’s got his mouth wrapped around his arm or something.
At first, he raises to the balls of his feet like what I’m doing hurts, and he needs to get away, so I press open mouthed kisses to the entrance that took all of me last night, and he settles back down, pressing his ass out for more after a minute or two.
I lick just inside the swelling, careful not to stretch the abused tissue. I handle his balls with gentle pressure and his cock with long, twisting strokes. He’s whimpering and speaking in incoherent bursts. His legs tremble, knees wobbling, but I’ve got a good grip on him. He’s not going anywhere.
Ultimately, because he’s him, and he brings out the worst in me as often as he calls on my better angels, I restrain my mouth to tender kisses and use my hand to get him off.
His load sprays the gray tile, and something twisted in me wants to lick the wall.
It’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen.
Fuck, I really need to come. I stand, tugging at my own dick.
He hasn’t moved much, still heaving breaths while he holds himself up on the wall, and I’m too close to wait for him to help me out.
The orgasm rockets through my core, sending a few impressive jets of cum directly onto his ass.
The water quickly washes it away, and I groan as another contraction makes me shoot more.
He looks over his shoulder at me—at what’s happening, and then our eyes meet. His mouth moves in a silent “ fuck. ”
“You like that?” I ask, almost laughing.
He nods.
“Wash up,” I tell him, letting go of my cock.
He fumbles the shampoo, and it falls to the floor.
I pick it up for him and squirt some into his hand before I take some for myself.
As he lathers his hair with his back to me, I watch his hands working through the strands I stroked half the night.
I last about five seconds before I’m covering his back and taking over.
He reaches around to grab my ass, holding me tight to his body.
A little too tight now that I’ve come. “Careful,” I say. “Full bladder.”
“You don’t piss in the shower?” he asks, sounding all blissed out as I massage soap into his scalp.
“No.”
“Easy clean-up,” he says.
“You’re…” I go quiet because I don’t know what he is other than a huge fucking turn-on ninety-nine percent of the time.
“Say it.”
“What?” I ask.
“Call me a slut. It’s what you’re thinking.”
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I assure him.
“Say it.”
“Fine,” I choke out as he leans back against me, pushing my bodily control to its outermost limits. I give him what he asked for. “You’re a fucking slut. Is that what you’re going for?”
“Just need someone to call me on it. I pick you.”
I grunt with discomfort when he bumps backward again.
“Just go, Ryan.”
“I’m not pissing on your leg.”
“That hurts my feelings.”
“Do you have feelings?”
He laughs darkly. “I do. You’d rather mark a toilet than me? Ouch.”
“A sick slut,” I mumble as I try to get away from him to rinse out my hair so I can relieve myself in the appropriate place.
“Oh, I like that. Call me that.” He squeezes again, not allowing me an inch of space. “Make me that .”
“How do you live with yourself?” I ask as my need to go gets urgently necessary.
“I don’t,” he says. “But you’re bringing me back to life.”
Jesus. He can’t say shit like that. I slide my hand around his neck; covering his throat with my palm and apply pressure. “Are you trying to make me hate myself?”
His voice strains to get through his windpipe. “I just want inside your head.”
“You’re there, asshole. You’ve always been there.”
“Prove it. Do this with me.”
I make myself stop thinking. I’m fucking exhausted, and I just came, and he’s wet and squirmy and hot, and what fucking difference does it make? We’re in the shower.