Chapter Twenty-Seven
Giles
I kiss him. It’s all I’ve wanted to do for the last fifteen minutes as we chatted, as we shared, as we were both a little bit vulnerable with each other.
At first I kiss Marcello like I want to thank him for that, for his vulnerability and fragility.
I go slow, keep my tongue soft, and rub my lips against his.
But that doesn’t last long. I hear a little grunt in the back of his throat and his hand comes up to cup my cheek and he nudges my mouth open wider while his tongue explores deeper.
I’m so lost in his kiss that I don’t realise how hard he is, or I am, until he’s shifting his body so our cocks line up.
He starts to rut up against me, rough enough to move my foreskin back and forth, gentle enough to drive me half-incoherent with wanting more.
Thank God I never turned the volume back up on my sports watch because it would be making no end of noise right now. I don’t need a tracker to know that my heart is hammering in my chest as he continues to devour my lips.
“Is this…” his mouth is still only centimetres from mine, his breath warm on my lips, “is this something men do? Together?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “It’s fun.”
“I can believe it.”
“We could do that now, instead of…”
“No,” Marcello says firmly. “I want that. I want that so much.”
I believe him. I hear it in his voice and I’m lost enough in the moment to tell myself that it’s me he wants, not that lesson, not that experience. I know I’m wrong, but I will deal with the consequences later. My kitchen floor needs a good clean anyway.
We continue to rock into each other, finding a rhythm together, and I’m only partially aware of his hand rummaging around somewhere on the bed.
“Found it,” he says, lifting the tube of lube into my line of sight. “Time to get you ready, like the article said.”
“Okay,” I say. “What position would you like me in?”
His face falls. “Shit, I hadn’t thought about that. The article didn’t say anything about positions. And also, isn’t there only one position men fuck in. You know, doggy?”
I can’t help my smile. I only hope it’s more adoring than patronising. “Men can fuck in nearly any position they like.”
“Oh.” Marcello’s eyes reduce in size. “Well, what is your favourite?”
I’m stunned into silence. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked this before and I don’t think I’ve ever given it much thought.
But I have an immediate answer for him. I want to be under him, on my back.
I want him on top of me and for me to be looking up at him, watching him.
I want his golden-brown eyes on mine. I want to study him so I can see if maybe, maybe he feels a fraction of what I think I feel for him.
I want that, which probably means it’s a terrible idea.
“Take me from behind,” I answer. It’s not a lie if I don’t answer his question directly.
“Okay,” he says and immediately moves.
I try not to mourn the loss of his warm body next to mine and instead, I also get up off the bed. Marcello moves to the end of it, giving me space to kneel in front of him. I feel unusually self-conscious when I bend over, and I’m all fours in front of him.
“Fuck, Giles,” he says but his voice cracks, making me so confused about what he means that I look back over my shoulder.
He places a hand on my right butt cheek and follows its curve with his palm.
With his eyes fixed firmly down, he doesn’t seem to be aware that I’m looking at him.
So I keep watching as a small smile curves his pink lips.
A few hairs have escaped the knot at the back of his head and they fall over his face making me wonder, yet again what he’d look like with all that rich brown hair around his shoulders.
Slow, measured breaths lift his chest and stomach and I watch, mesmerised.
“You’re a work of fucking art,” he says to my backside, and he practically takes the words right out of my mouth.
“Touch me, Marcello,” I tell him. Because I can’t stand any more of this admiration. It’s too much. It’s not right and it’s too much. “Play with me.”
My order, which is more desperate than anything else, seems to spur him into action. I hear the click of the tube opening and I wait to feel cool liquid on my butt.
But it doesn’t come. I look back again and see he’s squeezing it out onto the palm of his hand. He looks up and sees me watching.
“What?”
“You can just squeeze it on me.”
“Oh, right.” He looks down at his hand, then at my backside and then at my face. “I was going to apply it to you with my fingers. Is that not the right thing to do?”
“That’s perfect,” I say and I turn back to face my wooden headboard. Too fucking perfect, I add to myself.
“Okay, so do I just put it on you?”
“Yes, and you can play with me to spread it around and get me ready.”
“By which you mean, stretching you, yes?” Marcello sounds like he tsks himself. “I’m killing the mood aren’t I? With all these questions.”
I shake my head. “I don’t mind. It’s what you’re here for.” I say that as a reminder more to myself than him.
“But I still want it to be good. For you, I mean.”
“Don’t worry, Marcello. It will be,” I say and even that small statement feels like I’m revealing too much.
“Okay,” he says, not sounding at all convinced. “Here goes nothing.”
His fingers touch me. Slick and cool, they follow a circle around my hole. And then they do another one. And another.
It has an effect on me, for certain, the nerve endings there firing up, but I can’t help but notice how tentative his touch is and how that contrasts with how he touched me earlier.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him. If he’s having second thoughts I want to know about it now.
“I just don’t know what to do. The article didn’t go into specifics.”
I search my brain for a coherent and helpful answer. “Play with me how you would a woman. Get me ready how you would a woman.”
Marcello’s snort is quick and loud. “I am far from an expert on female sex anatomy and I have never seen a woman look like this.”
“You said yourself, women have buttholes. Everyone does.”
“Right, but I’ve never met a woman with glutes the size of yours and hamstrings that look like pistons.”
I smile to myself. “But you have done anal before, right? That’s what you said. Just do what you did for them.”
“Yeah, there wasn’t much getting them ready when I did anal before. And I’m starting to realise how terrible that was of me.”
“Did they ask you to get them ready?”
“No, most of the times, we barely spoke. I’m embarrassed to say there was drink involved. A lot of it. And with Kris, my ex, she did it all herself the very, very few times we did this.”
“Okay, well, let me do—”
“No!” Marcello’s voice is louder. “I want to do this. Let me try. And just tell me if it’s awful.”
“And if it’s good?” I turn my head the smallest amount over my shoulder.
“Then write it up in my next report.”
I’m about to say something in response, but Marcello shifts his fingers, a blunt pad – his thumb, I think – coming to cover my hole. I shiver a little.
“That’s good,” I tell him.
He circles the digit. “And this?”
“Also good.” I close my eyes. “Squeeze some more lube out and spread it around me there.”
Another click and then I do feel the cool sensation of lubricant dripping onto my hole. “Like this?”
“Yes,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “And if you want to, you can push some of it inside me.”
“With my fingers?”
“Yes, Marcello.” I try to keep my voice as level as I can. There’s something about his inexperience and his innocence and his fearless vulnerability that is affecting me. It’s sending blood to my dick, but also to my heart. My heart is pumping fiercely for him, for whatever he will do next.
“I feel like I need to find and call up all those women I didn’t do this for,” he says as he applies a bit more pressure to my hole.
“Maybe later, huh?” I huff out a rough laugh. “Now, I need your fingers on me.”
I hear a rumbling noise and it takes me a moment to realise it’s Marcello, growling. “I like it when you tell me you need me. It makes me feel like I can do this.”
“You can do this. And I do need you. I need you to stretch me.”
He says something in Italian, and then, “How much do I need to stretch you?”
“A lot. You’re not small, Marcello, and it’s been a few months. I need you to help me take you.”
That seems to break through whatever barrier was holding Marcello back as I feel one of his digits - his index finger, I think - breach me.
There’s that familiar stretch, tinged with a mild burn.
I feel more pressure as he pushes in deeper, past the second ring of muscle and then I feel him inside me.
He’s nowhere near my prostate, not yet, but there’s something about this connection that has me feeling like I’m on the edge already, but maybe not to coming, just to something else. Something even bigger than that.
“You’re so hot,” he tells me as I feel his finger move. “And so tight.”
I moan. I can’t help it.
“I can’t wait to be inside you.”
My elbows give way and my head comes crashing down onto the pillows, sending my butt up even higher.
“Yes, Giles,” Marcello says and I feel more slickness on me. More lube. He uses it to push another finger inside me so slowly it’s agonising.
“Can I move my fingers?”
“Yes, please, fuck, yes,” I whimper, too turned on to care. There’s a reason I’m not touching myself right now. I’m terrified if I did, I’d come instantly. And I don’t want that. I want to come with Marcello inside me, if I can.
“Is this okay?” he asks as he slides his fingers in and out, fucking me steadily, teasingly.
“Yes,” I mumble into the pillow before turning my head to the side. “But give me more. Go deeper.
He does exactly that and I feel him brush up against my prostate. My toes curl, my body shakes and my breath halts.
“Was that…” Marcello does it again.
“Mmm, yeah, that’s my prostate.”
“Right there?” He pushes against it and I involuntarily squeeze my rim around the base of his fingers. “Oh, yeah. That’s fucking hot.”