Chapter 22 #2
Samuel’s lips parted on a sharp, silent inhale. The pad of Gael’s thumb was slightly rough. It pressed down on the soft flesh of his lower lip, tugging it down just a fraction, exposing the vulnerable inner skin.
A helpless, broken sound escaped Samuel’s throat; a half-whimper, half-sigh. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, a desperate retreat. He tried to marshal his body, to wrest back some shred of control over his reactions.
It was a lost battle. It had been lost from the moment he’d walked into the kitchen. Any time this man was close to him, Samuel ceased to be a person with will. He became a collection of raw, exposed nerves, singing a song of surrender only Gael seemed to know how to play.
“Would you like coffee?”
Gael’s voice was low, a gravelly murmur that vibrated through the thumb still resting on Samuel’s mouth. His eyes, however, weren’t on Samuel’s face. They were fixed on his lips, watching the parted give of them, the helpless tremble.
Samuel hated that gaze. It saw too much. It saw the desperate want that turned his bones to liquid. And he loved it. He loved it because it was the only thing that made the endless, screaming static in his head go quiet.
He nodded, a jerky motion that made his lower lip drag against Gael’s thumb. “Yes, please.” The words were a hoarse scrape of air.
As he spoke, his mouth opened further. And Gael’s thumb, as if following a silent command of its own, slipped past the barrier of his teeth.
The warm, blunt tip touched his tongue.
Samuel’s eyes fluttered shut, a wave of dizzying heat crashing through him. He made a sound, a choked whimper deep in his throat.
Before Samuel could process it, before he could even flinch, the world upended. A powerful arm hooked around his waist, yanking him forward as Gael’s body turned. Sam’s back slammed into the wall beside the kitchen archway, the impact punching the air from his lungs in a soft oof.
Then Gael’s mouth was on his.
Gael’s lips sealed over his, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping into Samuel’s mouth with a single-minded purpose that left no room for hesitation.
The taste of him exploded on Samuel’s tongue; dark roast, a hint of mint, and underneath it all, the essential, musky flavor of the man himself, a flavor Samuel was already, hopelessly addicted to.
Samuel froze, a statue of shock and overwhelming sensation.
His hands stayed limp at his sides, his mind a white-noise scream of oh god oh god oh god.
He was being devoured against a wall, and all he could do was take it, his mouth a yielding, pliant territory for Gael’s conquering tongue.
A broken whimper vibrated in his throat, swallowed instantly by the hungry press of lips.
He was lost in a storm. The scrape of stubble against his chin.
The hot, slick slide of tongue against his.
The firm, unyielding pressure of Gael’s body pinning him in place.
The hand in his hair, tightening its grip, angling his head back for a deeper, more ravaging angle. Samuel’s eyes squeezed shut.
Slowly, like a man succumbing to a drug, his paralysis began to melt.
The fear didn’t leave, but it was drowned out by a rising tide of need so profound it felt like dying.
His hands, trembling violently, lifted from his sides.
They hovered for a heartbeat in the air between them, terrified to touch.
Then, with a soft, desperate sound against Gael’s mouth, he surrendered.
One hand fisted in the silken hair at the nape of Gael’s neck.
The other flattened against the bare, shocking heat of his back.
The feel of that skin, smooth, warm, alive with shifting muscle, unlocked something feral in him.
A moan, deep and ragged, was ripped from his chest. He kissed back, tentatively at first, then with a clumsy, frantic hunger, his tongue tangling with Gael’s in a messy dance.
He clutched Gael closer, his fingers digging into the hard plane of his shoulder blade, feeling the power coiled there.
It was then, as he arched into the kiss, that he felt it. The hard, thick ridge of his own erection, trapped painfully in his jeans. And pressing against it, through the layers of fabric, was the solid muscle of Gael’s thigh, which had slid between his legs.
The contact was electric. A jolt of pure, undiluted lust seared through his veins, burning away the last fragments of his mind. A high, sharp keen escaped his throat. His hips, entirely of their own volition, jerked forward, seeking friction, seeking relief against that delicious pressure.
Gael growled into his mouth, a sound of dark approval. He sucked on Samuel’s tongue, bit at his swollen lower lip, a sharp sting of pain-pleasure that made Samuel cry out. The hand that had been gripping his hair moved, sliding down his spine, beneath the hem of the borrowed t-shirt.
The touch on his bare lower back was a brand. It traveled lower, past the waistband of his jeans, over the curve of his ass, until Gael’s large, warm palm cupped one cheek through the denim.
Then he squeezed.
The groan Samuel let out was animal, guttural.
Gael’s grip was firm, possessive, and he used it.
He guided Samuel’s hips, setting a slow, grinding rhythm against his thigh.
The drag of denim, the relentless pressure against his aching cock, the filthy, consuming kiss; it was too much.
Sensation piled upon sensation, a tidal wave building with terrifying speed.
Samuel’s head fell back against the wall with a dull thud, breaking the kiss.
His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth fell open in a silent gasp as his hips rocked helplessly, chasing the friction Gael was providing.
The world was a red-hazed roar in his ears.
The smell of Gael’s skin, the feel of his hand on his ass, the perfect, maddening pressure between his legs; it was a feedback loop of pleasure tightening like a vise.
“Gael...” he choked out, a warning, a plea, he didn’t know.
It was too late.
The coil snapped.
Pleasure detonated at the base of his spine, a white-hot shockwave that ripped through him with violent, breathtaking force. His whole body seized, back bowing off the wall. A raw, shattered cry was torn from his throat, loud and obscene in the quiet apartment.
Wave after wave of intense, almost painful ecstasy racked him, his hips stuttering through the last frantic motions as he spilled into his jeans, untouched, completely clothed, utterly ruined.
For a moment, there was nothing. No sight, no sound, no thought.
Just white noise and the distant echo of his own pulse thundering in his ears. Bright, shapeless spots danced against the black canvas of his vision. The strength bled from his legs like water from a shattered glass, and he slumped forward, a puppet with its strings cut.
He didn’t hit the floor. Gael caught him, one arm banding around his back, the other under his knees, and lifted him as if he weighed nothing.
Samuel’s head lolled against Gael’s bare shoulder, his mind a blank, blissful void.
He was aware of movement, of being carried through the archway, into the softer light of the living room.
He was lowered onto the deep cushions of the sofa.
The world tipped and settled. Then the weight dipped beside him, and a hand, the same hand that had been a fist in his hair, a brand on his skin, slid into the damp strands at his temple.
The grip was firm. It pulled, guiding Samuel’s limp body until his forehead pressed into the warm, solid curve of Gael’s neck.
He fit there.
The realization was faint, distant. The angle was perfect. His nose was buried against skin that smelled of sweat, of coffee, of the dark, green scent that was Gael’s alone. He could feel the steady, strong beat of a pulse against his brow.
They stayed like that. Time lost meaning.
Samuel’s ragged breaths began to slow, shuddering into something deeper, more even.
The violent tremors that had seized his muscles quieted to a fine, intermittent shiver.
The blinding white noise receded, replaced by the sound of Gael’s own breathing, by the soft rustle of fabric, by the distant hum of the city outside the windows.
He was coming back. Piece by shattered piece, floating down to earth.
And as his mind cleared, as the fog of sheer, obliterating sensation lifted, the memories rushed in.
The taste of his thumb. The groan. The slam against the wall. The feel of bare skin under his palms. The filthy, perfect friction. His own broken, begging cries.
His entire body went rigid.
Oh my God.
The thought was a silent scream, so loud it echoed in the hollow of his skull.
What have I done?