Chapter Twenty-Seven #3
When Marcello pulls out of me, I feel empty. But then I’m rolling over underneath him, and he’s sitting back on his heels, knees bent and stroking his slick latex-covered dick. He reaches for more lube.
“I don’t think you need my lessons anymore,” I say nodding at him squeezing more lube out of the tube. “You know exactly what to do.”
Marcello smiles down at his hand as it pumps his cock. Then he flashes me the kind of smile that physically hurts me and he looks straight into my eyes. “But what if I want more lessons? With you?”
I open my mouth to reply but in a single movement, Marcello has pushed my knees back, tilted my ass up and is sliding himself back inside me.
We grunt together in perfect unison.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he tells me and I grab hold of my knees, bringing my legs back as far as they can go so he can go deeper.
“Please, Marcello, fuck me.”
He pushes inside me, not fast enough and yet not slow enough either. He grazes my prostate but it’s a teasing, lacking sensation that ends before it really begins. “How does this feel?”
“Like I need more,” I tell him. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”
“Will you come?”
“I… I don’t know,” I say and it’s my honest answer. I’m not thinking about my orgasm, only about his.
“I want you to come,” he says and he gives me another lukewarm, half-fast, half-slow thrust.
“Then angle your dick up, and go slow and hard.”
“Slow and hard,” he repeats. “That sounds kind of impossible.”
I grip both of his butt cheeks and guide him at the pace I want and then I increase the force when he’s close to being all the way inside me, making his cock jolt up.
“Like this,” I explain as I do it again.
It’s only a minute or two later when I realise how close this brings us. How it's put us in exactly the position I so craved but decided against earlier.
And I don’t want it to stop now. I don’t want to lift my hands off Marcello’s butt, even though he no longer needs my help as each and every stroke is taking me closer and closer to…
“Fuck,” he pants and he stops moving. “Almost came.”
“That’s okay.” If anything it would be a relief. Even if I didn’t come. As long as I knew it was good for him.
“Nah, it’s not. I said I wanted you to come. And you’re going to.”
“Bossy.”
“I can be.” He gives me a small smirk. “When it’s required. When it makes your eyes change colour like that.”
“My eyes don’t change colour.”
“Oh, they do. You know they’re this impossible shade of green and blue.
When you’re turned on, they go darker, more green like a forest at dusk.
And when you smile, like really smile, the kind of smile that makes your moustache bounce, then they’re bright blue like the Mediterranean Sea at sunrise. ”
Jesus fucking Christ. This man and his accidental poetry is going to end me. Decease me. Cremate me.
“So what are they now?” I push my luck further than I think I’ve ever pushed it.
“They’re both. Which like I just said is impossible. And thanks.”
I frown. “What for?”
“All that talking about your eyes just helped me not come when I was very, very close. Not that your eyes are a turn-off. They’re definitely not. They’re… they’re… How can I make you come?” He changes the conversation so swiftly it makes me a little dizzy.
“I could touch myself. While you fuck me,” I suggest, unable to name how I feel after those revelations about my eyes.
“Could you… could you like do it around my hand? So like we pretend it’s me getting you off? I know it’s not the same thing but—”
“Yes, we can do that.”
Fuck, I want to do that. Even though it’s not exactly taking a summer stroll together, to hold Marcello’s hand like that would be nothing short of an honour. An honour I may never have outside of the walls of my bedroom.
“Okay.” Marcello pushes back against my rigid hold on his buttocks and I reluctantly move my hands.
He leans back, propped up on one straightened arm, his fingers spread on the bed for balance, just at the side of my head.
Shifting his weight to that side, he grips my dick and starts to pump me while he thrusts inside me again.
It takes a minute or so but he eventually matches the rhythm of his hand to that of his hips.
I’m studying him the whole time as he keeps his gaze firmly on my cock. A few beads of sweat emerge on his forehead and I track them as they slide down the sides of his face. I know now that every time I see him sweat in the gym I’m going to be thinking of this, of how he fucked me.
“Show me,” Marcello says and that snaps my attention to his fist on me. “Help me get you off.”
When my hand wraps around his, I notice my breathing slows. Which is unusual considering how aroused I am and how emotionally wound up I feel. And yet he just has this calming effect on me.
I squeeze his grip so it tightens and I keep the tension on both our fingers as I start to guide him in stroking my dick.
When he starts to also press into me with those slow but deep and oh so intentional thrusts, I can’t help but close my eyes and tip my head back, enjoying every single sensation.
“Is it… okay?” Marcello asks and I hear how he’s slightly out of breath. I’ll remember that too the next time he’s running beside me or gasping after a gruelling set.
“More than,” I tell him, opening my eyes and holding his gaze.
“Can you… could you come? Because, sweet fucking Jesus, I’m dying here trying not to,” he says in a clumsy rush.
“I think I will,” I say, and I squeeze his fingers a little more, speeding up the strokes slightly.
“Fuck, please, baby, please come,” he begs and I discover that I like Marcello whimpering for me as much as I like him dishing out orders or using his stern, bossy voice with me.
A drop of his sweat lands on my chest and I find my spare hand moving without volition, scooping it up and putting it in my mouth. I suck on the finger that carried it there and Marcello studies it so intently he’s frowning.
“Oh, fuck. Fuck!” he grits out and I feel him swell inside me, filing me more than before. His torso shudders and he releases my hand, moving that arm so it can support himself above me. More Italian curse words spill out of his mouth as he spills inside me, inside the condom.
With the salt of his sweat on my tongue I watch him collapse into his orgasm, his face going slack and his body trembling again.
I keep pumping my hand around my dick and just when I think I’m not going to come, but not feeling disheartened about it because this…
this is more than enough, he opens his eyes and stares at me, a look that seems to peer into a part of me I have kept buried and silent and lost inside me.
“What are you doing to me, baby?” he asks, fracturing that part of me, and I explode from the inside out.
I feel my whole body light up and expand, as if reaching for him, but I daren’t move my limbs.
My chest fills with something stronger and more substantial than air and I hold my breath, keeping it inside me.
My legs straighten out and tense, muscles flexing more than if I was posing in a mirror.
And then, only then, do I finally feel my orgasm hit me.
Like lightning and thunder. Like sunshine and rain.
Like wind and fog. It’s both beautiful and brutal.
It rids me of my breath, my sight, and I swear, for a brief moment, my consciousness.
I don’t remember closing my eyes, and I don’t recall letting my dick go, but I’m opening my eyes when I feel Marcello’s hand on me, milking me as I return to the bed, to his body above mine and to my cum painting my stomach white.
We both watch this until long after it’s finished, Marcello gently returning my cock to my stomach where it twitches once, twice. I take in the mess we made. I feel more droplets of his perspiration drip onto me. I’m aware of my breathing returning to a rushed but regular rhythm.
“I’m sorry,” Marcello says and my eyebrows pull closer together in confusion, but before I have a chance to ask what he’s sorry for, he comes crashing down on top of me.
“I couldn’t hold it any longer,” he says as explanation.
I wrap my arms around him and rest my legs on top of his.
My eyes closed again, wanting to commit this moment to memory.
My tongue feels heavy with all the things I want to say to him, all the feelings that rushed to the surface just a moment ago.
But I swallow them all down, tuck them back into that part of me that I will bury and silence and lose inside me once more
“Just as well it’s arm day tomorrow,” I say instead.