Chapter 45
Lennon
Don’t get me wrong, I love the sex we’ve been having, but the sound Connor made when I pressed my finger into him has been ringing in my ears since the second it happened. It’s woken a different part of my brain. A part that wants to thrust. To push. To shove.
To fuck.
And fuck.
And fuck.
Now that the words have been spoken, and a plan has been made, I’m so fucking excited my insides are shaking. There’s a familiar tension in my bones. A flood. A fullness that’s made everything thick and slow.
We’re back home, thank fuck, and the front door has just swung closed. After hours of people and noise, the world falls blessedly silent. The apartment is still, other than the sound of uneven breathing. Quiet except for the hum of the current between us.
“Wanna hit the shower?” I suggest.
“Yeah, but you go first ’cause”—he tilts his head and raises a shoulder—“I’m going to take a while.”
I know what he means, and I like it. I shower so fast that I’m out before the water has fully heated up.
Once I’m out, I’m not sure if I should wait in his bedroom or mine, so I wait for him in the living room. I’ve thrown on a pair of sweats and an old long-sleeved T-shirt, and the longer I wait, the more unsure I start feeling about whether I’m in the right place and if I’m wearing the right thing.
My heart is beating fast, a fluttery flip-flop that makes me unsteady. I try to breathe deeply to calm myself. It doesn’t help.
I’m nervous.
I’m excited as hell, but this waiting is getting to me. The sitting here, knowing what’s going to happen, what I’m waiting for, what Connor and I are going to do when he comes out of the bathroom, it’s affecting me.
It’s taking me back.
Years back.
I remember this feeling. I felt like this long ago, before I ever had sex with anyone. I was a virgin then. I’m not anymore, but somehow, being with Connor makes everything feel new.
Everyone is unique, so of course, being with one person isn’t the same as being with another.
It’s not a matter of gender either. It’s a matter of DNA sequences and life experiences.
Genetics and personal history. It’s that no one else in the world is Connor Lockwood, and no one else has ever made me feel the way he does.
Safe and scared shitless. Horny and hurtling into the unknown.
Desperate. Desperate to see him. Desperate to be close to him.
Fixated.
Possessed.
Obsessed.
Completely and utterly obsessed.
Jesus, how long is this going to take?
I swipe my hand across my forehead and look at my watch again. It would be more useful if I knew what time it was when Connor went into the bathroom, but I didn’t think to check the time then. So now I don’t know how long he’s been in there, or how long I still have to wait.
I know what he’s doing, obviously. He’s cleaning out. Getting ready so I can eat him and fuck him to my heart’s content. I know that, and fuck, it only makes the waiting more intense. More torturous.
Minutes tick by and my dick gets harder with each one. My heart beats harder. The space between me and the room he’s in throbs and aches.
When the bathroom door finally opens, I jump despite the fact that I’m expecting him. Connor is still out of eyeshot, so I think I got away with it. I cross my legs quickly, one over the other, ankle on knee, in the hope of affecting a laid-back demeanor.
Just chill, I tell myself. You’ve got this. You’ve had sex before. With Connor. It’s no big deal.
It is a big deal, though, because that’s the thing—I have done it before.
I’ve done what he’s going to do tonight.
I know what it’s going to be like. What it’s going to be like for him.
I know what he’s going to feel when I stretch him, and I know what he’ll feel when my cock breaches the ring that usually seals him.
I know how naked he’ll feel. How exposed. How open.
I know what it will cost him to take me. I know how he’ll feel afterward. Wrecked. Spent, with my seed leaking out of him.
And how he’ll feel when he sits down tomorrow. Tender and bruised. Taken care of and laid bare.
He appears in the living room stark naked, and though I’ve been waiting and waiting for him, I must not have been expecting him to be naked because the sight of him like this—glistening skin everywhere—shocks the unholy hell out of me. I spring to my feet and try to sit back down.
Thank fuck, my feet take control and trot me toward him.
He smiles shyly at me, a hand hovering over his scar, as though he suddenly feels his nudity too.
My chest aches.
I take his hand in mine and bring it down to his side. My gaze skids over the scar. Over the shiny, puckered skin.
The thought of him sick and weak, cut open and sewn back together, makes my back teeth cold. The thought of him scared and in pain hurts me so much that I can’t stand it.
I take him into my arms and pull him as close as possible to chase those thoughts away.
His skin is hot from the shower, and he smells better than anyone has any business smelling. A delicate hint of musk with a lively splash of citrus.
He holds on to me tightly until our dicks stir against each other, reminding me what we’re here for.
He slips out of my grip and walks ahead of me as we go to his room. As always, there’s a sweetness about him naked, a careful control to his gait, a gentle swing of his arms, that floods me with arousal.
Blood roars in my ears, and my heart punches at my ribcage as if it means to attack it as I watch his ass quake as he walks.
He stops moving and turns toward me when he gets to his bed. His face is sweet and bashful and horny. “How do you want me?” he asks, tilting his head back slightly.
There are about a million ways I want him. A million or more, but the answer comes easily.
“Ass up, face down.”
He smiles and considers me for a heated beat. When he moves, his movements are graceful. Long and smooth. Lithe strides that end with him on his knees on the bed and then on all fours. Sweetness gives way to sex.
Fuck, it’s a lot of skin. A lot of muscle and sinew. A lot of things that make him, him.
“Like this?” he asks, a single dimple dipping deeply.
“Uh-huh.”
I sound like a caveman. Like someone who grunts rather than talks, so I try not to say more than I absolutely have to.
Instead, I run a hand along his back, lightly, not touching him as much as outlining him.
My fingers sail over his spine and get knotted in his hair.
I curl them and pull back, turning his face up and stealing a potent kiss.
I kneel beside him and arrange him the way I want him. I tug on his arms, stretching them out on the bed until his elbows and palms are flat on the mattress. He nestles his face into the bedding, turning it to the side so he can see me.
I stroke his hair, then his cheek, and then I kiss all over his face until smile lines pleat against my lips.
I grab the lube from his drawer and toss it onto the bed next to him, then I circle the bed, studying him from all angles.
It’s almost impossible to describe how hot he looks, but I try anyway. “Hot,” I slur. “You look hot, Con. You look so fucking hot.”
My hands are on him again, this time working their way down his body as I move into position behind him. I run my hand up a smooth inner thigh and tap it to get him to spread his legs more.
I do the same thing to his other leg.
He makes a soft sound that’s mostly a whimper, but part moan as well.
I run both hands up his outer thighs, changing my grip as I go from light and gentle to firm and demanding. He feels the shift and senses what it means. He must because he shivers a little.
My hands keep moving, tracking so firmly that they leave faint pink smudges in their wake, and when I get to his hips, I dig my fingers into his flesh and tilt his hips hard. His back arches, splaying him open, and the sound he makes is more moan than whimper.
He’s in front of me, on his knees. Naked and ready, a tight hole winking at me. Enticing me. Inviting me.
Everything is hot and constricted. I’m uncomfortable. It’s my clothes. I’m still wearing them, and I don’t want to be, so I tear them off angrily and throw them on the floor.
I want to do everything to Connor. Everything two men can do together naked. I want to make it last all night and all day. I want to drag it out and fuck him forever.
That’s what I’m going to do.
I’m going to lavish him with affection. I’m going to drive him crazy. Make him wild. I’m going to find every button he has and push it. And then I’m going to push it again.
I’m going to turn him on so much that he’s going to cry and beg me to fuck him.
That’s what I mean to do. What I intend to do.
What I actually do is lose control of myself.
I lose it completely.
One second, I’m normal, with semi-clear thoughts and intentions, and the next, my face is mashed into Connor’s ass and my tongue is forcing itself inside him.
I don’t mean in a seductive, teasing way.
I mean in a hungry, insatiable way. An out-of-control way.
A grunting, grabbing, open-mouth kissing, and dying of hunger way.
“Sorry!” I garble, licking and jabbing my tongue as deep as I can get it. “Can’t help it. Can’t get enough.”
He laughs, and the sound floats around the room, a soft, filmy ribbon flicking and flapping at the ceiling and floor.
His laughter drags out, changing from individual bubbles that pop to long trails of sound that vibrate in my knees.
The feel of his pucker clamping on my tongue drives me wild. That little squeeze. That little shiver when I thrust in. The smoothness. The heat inside him.
I can’t think of anything. I can’t remember how to make my brain work or operate my arms and legs.