Chapter 1 #3
Guys had complimented me before, but I’d never felt this…
exposed. Raw. And yet, weirdly cherished.
Like he wasn’t just talking about my body, but about my soul.
I could appreciate my physical attractiveness—I worked out hard to get this body.
The body that had yet to let me down in the face of daunting fires, daring rescues, and darling lost kids at the Christmas Craft Fair.
Ulysses crawled up my body. When his face hovered just above mine, he whispered, “A kiss, I think.” Then his mouth descended on mine.
This was no light brushing of lips. This was his tongue demanding entrance and thrusting in. This was force and dominance. This was fucking hot.
He thrust his pelvis against mine, clearly seeking friction.
Our cocks brushed—his so erect and mine getting very interested.
He grasped my hair with one hand and tugged.
Hard.
A shiver ran through my entire body.
He pulled back from the kiss. “You ready?”
I angled my hips so our cocks brushed again.
“Eighteen,” he marveled.
I mock scowled.
He grinned. Then, slowly, he slid back down my body.
Every nerve ending sang as his soft skin brushed mine.
My soul demanded just as much attention as he rolled the condom over his impressive length.
I wanted to know more about this man. Highway Seven ran straight through downtown Mission City.
Had he been coming from Hope and going to Vancouver, or was he from our small town?
I’d never seen him before—and I was certain I would’ve remembered him—but I didn’t know the thousands of people in town.
As close as we were as a community, I’d never meet all the inhabitants.
For that matter, was he out? I was. Had come out in high school—much to the consternation of some of the fundamentalist parents who didn’t want their sons associating with that boy.
Right. Like half of them weren’t having sex under their parents' noses and, on occasion, getting a young woman pregnant. I never flaunted my sexuality, and I didn’t throw their hypocrisy back in their faces.
I had the support of Mr. Clayton, the principal, as well as my guidance counselor.
Oh, and Mom, of course. I hadn’t needed anyone else’s approval.
Ulysses coated his finger with lube.
I moved my now-erect cock and tingling balls out of the way.
He offered a cryptic smile as he sank his first finger in.
I reveled in the carnality of the action. Not all guys were interested in this. As often as not, I prepped myself. But when a guy offered? I always took him up on what I saw as generosity.
He breached me with a second finger.
My cock leaked a drop of precum.
He brushed my prostate.
Electricity again ran through my body. So easily, he knew which buttons to push. How to work me into a frenzy with such practiced movements.
Yeah, no virgin shrinking violet here.
Which had been my impression from the moment he’d raked me with his gaze over the rim of his sunglasses.
“Fuck, Finn, you’re so tight.” He scissored his fingers, working me open.
I arched an eyebrow. “Somehow I think you’ll manage.”
His grin lit something inside me. I’d never felt this comfortable, this quick with anyone. Usually, I kept at least a bit of my guard up.
He withdrew his hand, coated his cock with lube, and lined himself up. He held my gaze.
I nodded.
He pressed inside me. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t go easy on me either. He gave me the allowance to breathe through the initial burning, but soon he was pressing himself inside. Working as deep as he could. Showing me, with his body, how much this meant to him.
Or perhaps that was just projection on my part.
“Hold on, okay? You ready?”
With all my ruminations, I hadn’t realized he’d bottomed out. I spread my thighs as wide as I could, then grabbed the headboard. “Don’t go easy. Fuck me into the mattress, Ulysses.” I let his name go on a sibilant s.
“Okay, baby. You asked for this.” He withdrew all the way and slammed into me.
My grip faltered for a moment, then I shifted. “Yeah. That.”
“Remember, you asked for it.”
“Oh, you’d better believe it.”
His eyes flashed in the waning daylight. A warm light glinted off his dark skin, giving it a lovely glow. Sweat sheened as he pushed into me over and over again.
I kept myself open to him. Welcomed each thrust as he drove me higher and higher. “Ulysses.” I loved his name. Loved how I could elongate the s at the end.
In response, he grasped my cock. He tugged it to the punishing rhythm he set. “I need you to come, Finn. Fucking come for me.” Said through gritted teeth.
Not one to disobey direct orders, I came.
Spectacularly.
Completely.
Mind-numbingly.
The orgasm that ripped through me tore my soul open. Sent me flying over a cliff of absolute pleasure. Rocked my body into another universe.
He thrust three more times and then held himself still. He arced his head back and let out a truly satisfied moan.
Or what I hoped was satisfied.
Fuck knew, I was sated beyond words.
The moment held suspended in time until he collapsed on top of me. I was a decent-sized guy, but he lay heavy in my arms. Completely spent. Hopefully replete. I held him, wrapping my thighs around his hips, banding my arms around his to his back.
Gripping as if my life depended on it.
Because perhaps it did.
I’d never—not once in my twenty-six years—felt this way about a guy.
Sure, I’d had a couple of boyfriends in high school and college. But no one serious. I wasn’t built that way. I wanted to have fun. Carefully, but with willful abandon. I was only going to be this young once. I had tons of time before I needed to settle down.
If I even needed to. My mother had taught me fierce independence. I’d never be reliant on another person for anything—least of all my own happiness.
Yet… Even as these thoughts ricocheted around my mind, I couldn’t help but feel…something. I couldn’t describe it. Almost didn’t want to. I was terrified of this feeling and yet, in the next moment, was willing to embrace it.
As our breathing evened out, he chuckled. “I need to get us cleaned up. Dried cum is, uh, gross.”
I laughed. “Yes, that’s true. I can get up—”
“No. Let me do it.” He rolled off me, removed the condom, knotted it, and tossed it into the trash. Without another word, he sauntered to the bathroom, returning a few minutes later with a hot washcloth.
I hissed as he pressed it to my nether regions.
“Oh, poor baby.”
The thing wasn’t scalding, but I mock glared.
He winked.
After he had me cleaned up, he went back to the bathroom. Assumedly to put the washcloth in the clothes hamper. Considerate guy. Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. For all his bad-boy biker persona, he’d shown me his soft underbelly.
And I liked it. Probably more than I should’ve.
He returned. “Turn on your side, Finn.”
“Please.” I exaggerated the word.
His bark of laughter amused me.
“Please.” He waved for me to do as told.
Admittedly, I’d cuddled with very few men over the last ten years. Intrigued, I rolled to my side.
He slid in behind me and then, to my surprise, he insinuated his arm under mine and placed a hand on my sternum. “So that’s what it’s like to fuck a firefighter.”
I chuckled. “Worth the detour?”
After a moment, he whispered. “I’ll never regret that detour.”
Then I, in my sex-hazed mind, heard him say something like, or so I’ll tell myself. Before I could provide a coherent response, I slipped into sleep.
Hours later I awoke with a shaft of moonlight across my bed.
I knew. I didn’t need to check the spot next to me to know I was very much alone. The optimistic part of me believed he’d left a note, so I padded out to the kitchen.
Of course, no note. I checked the bathroom and the front door just in case…
Nope.
Naked, I climbed the circular stars to my loft, the hardwood a comfort on my feet. To ground me. To remind me the world wasn’t coming to an end.
My grandfather had built this house for my grandmother and my mother.
My mother had held onto it, despite our dire financial circumstances some years.
One day I’d bring a partner home. Someone who would understand my attachment to the place.
I flipped open my laptop and selected a new document.
The flashing cursor mocked me.
I was a poet. A creator of words strung together. A purveyor of my interpretation of life. I wrote poems. Epic love poems.
My friend, Carter, wrote epic fantasy novels. Two very different endeavors, and yet we’d formed a friendship.
After a long moment, I closed the document. I didn’t write tragedies. I wrote poems with happy endings. After just one encounter with a mysterious man, I couldn’t write a poem about how this ended well.
Instead, I composed an email to Carter.
Then, exhausted, I returned to my very empty bed.