Chapter 23 Don’t Panic
TWENTY-THREE
Don’t Panic
If wanting Tristan continues to be this painful, I’m not sure I’ll survive it. And he might not, either.
“Take me to bed, we’re too far apart.”
I know exactly what he means. That this pain is mutual, and we only have two ways of sharing it. We’ve already talked enough tonight.
He undresses me with quick fingers, barely needing to separate his mouth from mine until he peels off my shirt, and then it’s only for a second.
Though lacking some of his dexterity, I manage to get him naked, too.
Once his nipple rings are scraping my chest, and the kiss is growing increasingly savage, I back him up against the bed and put myself on top of him.
He scrambles beneath me to get his feet onto the mattress, and I follow, kissing him wherever my mouth lands. His nipples, his collarbone, his neck. I give a special kiss to the tattoo behind his ear as I run my hand down his side with the goal of getting one of his ass cheeks firmly in hand.
He lifts his leg to help me out.
“You look good like this,” I tell him.
When we’re together, Tristan and I do one of two things.
We talk, or we fuck. The conversation, more often than not, doesn’t stop just because we’re naked together.
We’re not big TV watchers, and we don’t leave the house often, but maybe it’s just been an intense week.
Maybe we’ll settle into something else eventually.
“You should see yourself right now.” He’s looking up at me like I’m a fucking god.
I slide my cock over his, lowering my hips to maintain the friction.
He licks his lips, and his aqua gaze hoods. His lower body gives a sexy roll, ass clenching in my hold. He runs a hand over one of my pecs, squeezing lightly, brushing my nipple with his thumb. “Bench press is paying off.”
“Yeah? You should feel my abs.”
“I plan to. Someone’s been doing his mountain climbers.” His hand drifts lower.
I kiss him. “Get yourself ready. I wanna watch.”
His teeth dig into my lower lip as I pull away, like he doesn’t want to let them go. He’s reaching for the lube which is never far. Today it’s between our pillows.
I force myself to let go of him and sit back on my heels. Tristan squirts lube on his cock, then his fingers. He offers the bottle to me, and I take some for my own dick.
We grip ourselves at the same time, but he gathers his balls up to reveal his hole. The slick fingers of his other hand tease a few circles around the snug rim.
I stroke myself slowly, my gaze taking in every inch of him.
His cheeks are flushed hot, and he’s staring up at me.
He loves this, I think, making a show of himself, and he’s makes such a pretty show.
There’s a certain vanity he possesses, which he hasn’t been able to hide since he’s been staying here.
He knows his angles. He knows how to find his light and the exact right way to smile.
His body is always impeccable. He spends a significant amount of time in the bathroom getting ready in the morning, and unless he’s just rolling out of bed, I rarely see him looking anything less than polished until I see him like this.
Legs splayed wide. Hair indecently mussed by my hand and the pillow.
A mostly unguarded expression on his face despite how hard he’s trying to look sexy.
He always looks sexy, though. I have no notes. However, if I were to take a picture of him now with his fingers in his hole and his forehead drawn in pleasure and want, he would have a dozen critiques.
It’s working for me, though. Precum bursts suddenly from my tip, and I go lighter on my grip.
“I like it better when you do it,” he says, stuffing in a third finger. He winces and grunts, trying to make me feel bad for him, I guess, but I don’t because he looks so good. “You should get a cock ring.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It would look hot, and you could fuck me for hours.”
“I can fuck you for hours without one, too.”
“But what if you really tortured yourself. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
I grin, ready to get the torture going. I grab his working wrist and lean in, sucking his fingers into my mouth. His eyes widen in shock, but then he closes them on a moan. His hips give another roll, tempting me toward them.
I savor the taste of him on my tongue while looking him in the eyes, letting him see how fucking feral he makes me.
“Stop raising the bar, Archer. I won’t be able to keep up.”
I smile and tap my fingertips against his glistening hole. I rise to my knees, supporting myself on my other arm as I hold myself over him. He engulfs my fingers with a greedy push of his hips. “I think you have that backwards. I wish you could feel what you do to me.”
“Make me feel it,” he breathes, a hand sliding behind my neck so he can leverage himself up to press his mouth to mine.
It means a lot to me that Tristan never makes me say anything he knows I’m not ready to say.
Helen certainly got me thinking, but after watching my relationship with my brother swirl down the drain in real time, I’m not convinced I don’t still have some major deficits in the love department.
I don’t know if I’m capable of making Tristan feel loved, or even as out of his mind with wanting as I am, but I can make him feel necessary because he is.
Adjusting my cock at his hole, I enter him slowly, my thick crown popping through his rim and stretching him until he squirms and pants. His nails dig into the nape of my neck as he grinds his jaw. His chest heaves.
“Fucking…Christ.”
“Does it burn, angel?”
He inhales deeply through his nose and nods, a small whimper escaping him as I move incrementally, torturing him with my fat cockhead—his words, not mine.
His hole is fucking tiny, and everything about his ass is tight muscle.
I think his vanity demands it because he does a lot of glute work in the gym. He likes compliments on it, too.
“You’ve been working out for me.”
“A hundred squats while you were at HEB.”
“That’s my boy.”
“Mmph. How are you so fucking hot?”
“Eye of the beholder. Also, I have this seriously sexy boyfriend who ignores all my red flags.”
“Oh fuck…” He can’t help himself anymore and shifts his body to take my cock whole. “What red flags?”
I’d laugh, but I’m too busy absorbing the shock and heat and clench of him. My forehead drops onto his, and I thrust. He thrusts back, and we’re in it.
He wanted to feel how much I want him? I make sure he does. He wanted us closer, I get as close as I possibly can. He wanted to show off his hot little ass? I make full use of it.
It’s part revelation, part endurance. An outpouring and a marathon.
“You were definitely made for me,” I say at some point.
“I never once doubted that.”
Jesus fucking Christ, he’s amazing. Once an insane fantasy and now a perfect match. I don’t take a single second I’m with him for granted. Not after missing him for so long or being so incredibly uncertain what our future holds.
Also, he’s not wrong about our potential for internet stardom in terms of our sex game.
He puts me through my paces in multiple positions.
If he comes, and he inevitably will, he lets me kiss him through his aftershocks and then rallies, switching things up until I’m back inside him, chasing another edge.
At the beginning of this crazy week, he complained—wondered out loud if he wasn’t “doing it” for me.
I think he knows by now—after seeing a few of the impressive loads I’ve left inside him—that he does it for me like no other.
Today is no exception. As he’s coming for the third time on his hands and knees, completely collapsing onto the mattress with exhaustion and a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms and moans, I join him in his complete undoing.
My orgasm is loud, long, and unintentionally dramatic.
I hold his ass against me like a flesh light until I fully empty myself inside him.
My balls are so raw and tight, I nearly pass out as they convulsively spurt what I’ve managed to store up.
I’m loud, too. Cursing the ache and the way he’s still managing to milk my cock in his hole, despite how spent the rest of his body is.
In the aftermath, my brain spins, and I forget everything that isn’t Tristan and this amazing thing we’ve managed to find together.
As I run my hands down his sweat-slicked back, I regret that my need for him is only slightly lessened. Like how running water over a burn only helps alleviate the sting as long as the liquid rushes over it. The burn is still there, waiting, and I feel this in my core.
“You’re gonna fucking kill me, angel.”
“Can’t,” he murmurs into a pillow. “I’m already dead.”
“Can I interest you in a shower?” I ask.
“Can you walk?”
“Probably better than you can.”
“Tell me you like me for more than my ass.”
“I just called you my boyfriend.”
“A. You’ve said it once before. And B. That was like an hour ago, and you were barely inside me.”
“Doesn’t count?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m counting it. I have a whole journal entry planned for it already. But on the off chance you’ve read this situation wrong, I am one hundred percent going to be requiring things of you that no woman you’ve ever tricked into being with you would dare.”
“Like what?”
“Location sharing. Taking me with you everywhere. Meeting my mom. You’re super fucked.”
“Oh, I’m in, angel. You may or may not regret it, but you’re fucking stuck with me.”
On Friday, almost two weeks after the fight at their house, Connor breaks his silence and sends Tristan a text.
In terms of timing, it’s not too bad. We were finishing up some takeout sushi on the couch and trying to act like we could sit through a movie without one of us whipping out our dick.
He was telling me all about how he was going to teach me how to cuddle and making up random rules about it when his new phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He picks it up, reads the message and hands the phone to me saying, “It’s your brother.”
Conner