Milo #3
Adrian rocked into him, unhurried, his thigh pressing and releasing and pressing again, and even through two layers of fabric the friction was enough to make Milo’s hands fist in the sheets and his jaw fall open.
He could feel Adrian hard at his hip, the thick line of his cock through his jeans, and Milo rolled his hips into it and Adrian’s breath stuttered and the sound of that, Adrian losing his breath because of Milo’s body on his, went straight to Milo’s cock.
“Off,” Milo said. His voice was wrecked and they’d barely started.
His hands found Adrian’s belt and pulled, fingers shaking and clumsy, and Adrian helped him, and then belt and buttons and zippers and jeans and boxers, all of it, gone, kicked to the end of the bed, and the cold air hit Milo’s skin for about one second before Adrian’s body was back and it was all skin.
The full contact knocked the air out of him.
Adrian’s thighs on his. Adrian’s stomach on his.
Adrian’s cock, hard and hot, pressed to Milo’s hip, and Milo’s cock alongside Adrian’s, and the slide of skin on skin was so much, so overwhelming, that his vision blurred and his hands gripped Adrian’s shoulders and he made a sound that was closer to a whimper than anything he’d ever admit to.
Adrian’s hips rolled and their cocks slid together and Milo’s head went back into the pillow and his mouth fell open and he heard himself say “fuck” in a voice that didn’t sound like his.
Adrian did it again, slower, grinding on him, the friction slick from the precome leaking between them, and Milo’s thighs shook and his hands slid down Adrian’s back and grabbed his ass and pulled him tighter and they ground into each other, hips finding a rhythm that was messy and desperate and perfect.
“Good?” Adrian said into his jaw. Checking.
“If you stop I’ll kill you,” Milo said, and Adrian laughed into his skin and the laugh vibrated through Milo’s chest.
Adrian kissed down his throat. Slower now, taking his time, his mouth open and warm on Milo’s skin, tongue tracing the line of his collarbone, teeth grazing his chest. His hand trailed down Milo’s stomach, fingers dragging through the hair below his navel, and Milo’s breath was coming in short harsh pulls because he could feel where this was going and his whole body was straining toward it.
Adrian’s hand wrapped around his cock and Milo’s spine arched off the bed and a sound ripped out of him that bounced off the studio walls.
Adrian’s grip was firm and warm and the paint-rough calluses on his palm dragged against Milo’s shaft on every stroke and the texture of it was maddening, friction and warmth and the knowledge that these were the hands that had painted him, these fingers that had built his jaw in oil paint were wrapped around his cock, and Milo’s hand shot to Adrian’s wrist not to stop him but to hold on to something.
Adrian stroked him lazily at first. Then faster.
His thumb swept over the head on every upstroke, spreading the precome, and Milo’s hips rocked into his fist and his face was pressed into the pillow and he was making sounds he’d never made, couldn’t stop making, low continuous moans that he didn’t recognize as his own voice.
“I want my mouth on you,” Adrian said. Low, warm, right against Milo’s ear, and Milo’s cock jerked in his hand.
“Yeah,” Milo managed. “God. Yeah.”
Adrian kissed down his chest. His stomach.
The V of muscle at his hip, his tongue tracing the groove, and Milo watched him, propped on his elbows, watching Adrian’s mouth travel down his body with the unhurried focus Adrian gave to everything that mattered.
When Adrian settled between his thighs and looked up at him, brown eyes without the glasses, mouth inches from Milo’s cock, the eye contact alone almost finished him.
Adrian licked a long stripe from the base to the head and Milo’s elbows gave out and he fell back and his hand found Adrian’s hair.
Adrian took the head into his mouth, tongue swirling, and then sank lower, taking him in inch by inch.
Warm and wet and the suction of it building as Adrian hollowed his cheeks and Milo’s thighs clamped around Adrian’s shoulders and his hips wanted to thrust up so badly his muscles ached from holding back.
Adrian’s hand went to his hip. Pressed once, then released. Permission.
Milo rocked up into Adrian’s mouth and Adrian took it, all of it, his throat opening, and the sound he made around Milo’s cock was a low hum that sent vibration up through Milo’s spine.
Adrian pulled back to the head and tongued the slit and Milo’s hand tightened in his hair and he said “fuck, Adrian, fuck” in a voice he’d never used before.
Adrian bobbed faster, his hand working what his mouth couldn’t reach, and the wet sounds of it filled the room and Milo could feel his orgasm building, the heat coiling tight at the base of his spine, and he pulled at Adrian’s hair.
“Stop. I’m going to— stop, I don’t want to come yet.”
Adrian pulled off. His lips were swollen and wet and his eyes were glazed and he looked up at Milo from between his legs and the sight of him, wrecked and wanting and looking at Milo like Milo was the only thing in the world, was going to be burned into Milo’s brain forever.
“Come here,” Milo said, and his voice was shaking.
Adrian crawled up and Milo kissed him and tasted himself on Adrian’s tongue and the taste of it, salt and musk and Adrian’s mouth, made his cock throb.
He pushed Adrian onto his back and the mattress creaked and Adrian looked up at him, surprised, and Milo thought: I’m doing this.
I want to do this. I’ve wanted to do this for months and I’m doing it.
He kissed Adrian’s throat. His chest. He bit the skin over Adrian’s ribs and Adrian hissed through his teeth and his hips jerked.
Lower. Adrian’s stomach tensing under Milo’s mouth.
The trail of hair below his navel, and Milo followed it down with his lips and his tongue and Adrian’s fingers threaded through his hair, not pushing, just there.
He’d thought about this in the car. In the apartment.
In the bed that was good for recovery and nothing else.
He’d jerked off to the thought of Adrian’s cock in his mouth and come hard and hated himself for it and done it again the next night.
And now he was here, face to face with it, Adrian thick and hard and leaking against his stomach, and Milo wrapped his hand around the base and lowered his mouth and took him in.
Adrian’s whole body shuddered.
The weight of him on Milo’s tongue, the heat and the skin-salt taste and Adrian’s cock twitching when Milo’s tongue found the underside of the head.
Milo had never done this and he was figuring it out in real time, taking what he could, his hand covering what his mouth couldn’t, and he paid attention the way he paid attention on the ice, reading Adrian’s body for signals.
When he flattened his tongue and sucked, Adrian’s thighs tensed and his fingers tightened in Milo’s hair.
When he took him deeper and swallowed around him, Adrian said “Milo” in a voice Milo had never heard before, broken open, wrecked, and the sound of his own name in that voice went through Milo’s body like the goal horn through the ice and settled in his cock.
He sucked harder. He was getting better at it, finding what worked, and Adrian’s hips were rocking up in small thrusts and Adrian’s hand was gripping his hair and Adrian was saying his name and swearing and the sounds were raw and desperate and Milo was making them happen and the power of that, of being the reason Adrian sounded like that, was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced.
Adrian’s hand tightened. Warning. Milo pulled off and Adrian’s cock was wet and flushed and gorgeous against his stomach and Milo had just had that in his mouth and he wanted it back.
He crawled up and they kissed, tasting each other, Adrian’s tongue in his mouth and Milo’s hand on Adrian’s jaw holding him there, both of them breathing hard and shaking and pressed together from chest to thigh.
“I want you inside me,” Adrian said against Milo’s mouth. “I want to feel you.”
Milo’s entire body went hot. His cock pulsed against Adrian’s hip.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
Adrian reached for the bedside drawer. Came back with a bottle and pressed it into Milo’s hand. Milo looked at it and his hands were shaking and Adrian’s hand covered his and guided it.
“Like this,” Adrian said. He coated Milo’s fingers and brought them between his legs and Milo pressed one finger in and Adrian’s breath caught and his eyes closed and Milo watched his face.
The heat inside Adrian was staggering, tight and slick and gripping, and when Milo added a second finger Adrian’s back arched and he groaned and his hand gripped the sheet and Milo worked him open slowly because he was terrified of hurting him and fascinated by every sound he could pull out of him.