Chapter 9 - Rhys #2
I pull his briefs down and wrap my hand around his cock and he hisses, his hips bucking into my fist. He's hard and leaking and I stroke him slow just to watch his face twist.
"Don't tease," he says. "We're on a clock."
"You're the one who wanted the bathroom."
"And I want your cock in me, not your hand. Move."
I slide two fingers into him and he moans, loud enough that I clap my other hand over his mouth. He bites my palm and grins behind my fingers and clenches around me, hot and slick and so wet my fingers make an obscene sound when I thrust them.
"You're so fucking wet," I say, and my voice has gone low and rough in a way that makes his eyes glaze. "You sat in that booth for an hour dripping like this?"
He pulls my hand off his mouth. "Every time you put your arm around me I could smell you and my omega was losing it. Now stop talking and fuck me before someone knocks."
I pull him to the edge of the sink. Line my cock up against him and push in and his mouth drops open, his head thudding back against the mirror, his legs tightening around my waist. He's so wet I slide in to the hilt in one stroke and the clench of his body around my cock makes my hands shake on the porcelain.
"Oh god," he says into my neck. "Okay yes. This was a great idea. I'm a genius."
"You're unhinged."
"You love it."
I do. I love it. I love him. I love that he dragged me to a dive bar to meet his friends and then dragged me to the bathroom to fuck him on a sink.
I love that he's laughing while I'm inside him, that his head falls back against the mirror and he grins at the ceiling and says "harder, come on, someone's going to need to pee eventually. "
I fuck him harder. The sink rattles against the wall.
His slick is running down my thighs, pooling on the edge of the sink, making everything wet and filthy and loud.
Every thrust is a slick, obscene sound that echoes off the tile and I should care about that but I don't because Jude is clenching around me and panting "fuck, right there, don't stop" and his cock is bouncing against his stomach with every stroke, flushed and dripping.
He grabs the front of my shirt and yanks me closer, burying his face in my neck, breathing me in, and his whole body tightens around me. "God you smell good. You smell like mine. You smell like I want to live in your fucking scent forever."
"You do live in my scent. You wear my clothes every day."
"And I'm going to wear your come on my thighs back to that booth if you don't hurry up and make me come."
My brain short-circuits. I wrap my hand around his cock, slick with precome, and stroke him hard and fast in time with my thrusts.
He's leaking all over my fist and clenching around my cock like he's trying to milk me and the noises he's making against my shoulder, these bitten-off whimpering gasps, are going to live in my head forever.
"Can't knot you here," I manage.
"I know. Don't care. Just— fuck, Rhys, I'm close, I'm so close—"
"Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
He comes in my fist with his teeth sinking into my collar to muffle the sound.
His whole body locks up, his ass clenching so hard around me that my vision whites out, and I fuck him through it, stroking his cock until he's shaking and oversensitive and shoving my hand away.
I pull out at the last second and come hot and thick across his thigh, his hip, the hem of his shirt that's rucked up around his ribs.
I press my forehead against his and we breathe each other's air and my hand is still on his cock and his slick is everywhere and we are an absolute mess.
He looks down at himself. My come on his thigh. His come on my hand. Slick on the sink, the floor, both of us.
"We are disgusting people," he says, and starts laughing.
"You started it."
"And I'll start it again. Hand me some paper towels."
We clean up with the efficiency of two people who know they're on borrowed time. He fixes his hair in the sharpied mirror. I tuck my shirt back in and try to look like I haven't just had sex standing up in a dive bar. We do not succeed at looking normal, but we try.
"I'll go out first," he says. "Wait thirty seconds."
"They're going to know."
"Oh, they already know. Benji's probably taking bets on how long we lasted." He kisses me, quick and bright, and unlocks the door and slips out.
I lean against the sink. The one he was sitting on ten seconds ago. The bathroom smells like us and sex and slick and I should be mortified and instead I'm grinning at the graffiti on the wall.
When I get back to the booth, Benji slow-claps. Shay rolls his eyes. Milo hides his face behind his drink. Soren gives me a thumbs up that is somehow both sincere and devastating.
"Subtle," Shay says.
"Very," Jude agrees, sliding back in next to me like nothing happened. His hand finds my thigh again under the table. His friends know. They're roasting us and they're not scandalized or disgusted, they're just here. Part of this. Part of us.
Behind the bar, Declan catches my eye. He doesn't say anything. Just gives me a look that says I know exactly what happened in my bathroom and goes back to polishing a glass. I decide I like him.
Benji takes a photo of us — Jude leaning into my side, my arm around his shoulders, the booth, the drinks, the whole messy, loud, warm scene — and sends it to the group chat. I hear it buzz in five different pockets around the table.
"For the archive," Benji says. "First official alpha in the Swipe Squad. Historic moment."
"Don't make it weird," Jude says.
"It's already weird. You matched with your TA on a hookup app and now he's at our bar. That's objectively weird."
"It's fate," Soren says quietly, smiling into his drink.
"It's a trashy app and a lucky swipe," Shay says. "Don't romanticize it."
"I'm absolutely going to romanticize it," Soren says.
Jude tilts his head up and looks at me. His eyes are bright from the beer and his cheeks are flushed and the bite on his neck is visible above his collar and he's not hiding it.
Neither am I. We're in a booth in a dive bar surrounded by the people who matter most to him and there's nowhere else I'd rather be.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"Thanks for being here."
"I'm done being anywhere else."
He grins. Settles deeper against my shoulder.
Steals a sip of my beer. Around us, his friends argue about something I've already lost track of, their voices overlapping and loud and completely at home.
The jukebox plays something from the early 2000s.
The bar smells like beer and old wood and too many people and underneath all of it, underneath everything, it smells like us.