Jordan #2
When our time is up, we’re all starving, so we find the nearest diner and order burgers and fries. We sit in a booth, me next to Milán and Theo next to Rory.
We talk and laugh and eat, sharing our fries and desserts.
I lean back and listen to the three of them tease each other, even Rory chiming in.
And everything feels just right.
Thanksgiving is a blur of family and food. Milán’s brother is working, so he and Rory come over to our place.
We cook too much food and then eat too much food and then all groan and lie around in the living room.
Wren falls asleep with his head on Sutton’s stomach, and Sutton keeps carding his fingers through Wren’s hair, smiling down at him softly.
It’s not the two of them that catch my attention the most, though.
It’s Milán’s expression when he looks at me.
There’s hunger in his gaze. It’s subtle—a slight shift in his expression and a softening around the eyes.
I don’t know what he’s thinking of exactly, but I can almost see the shape of it forming in him.
Later, when Rory has once again settled on the mattress in Theo’s room and everybody else has gone to bed, he trails me up the stairs.
He raises a brow at me. “Guest room?”
I take his hand and pull him into my room. “Don’t be an idiot.”
It’s the second time I’ll get to share a bed with him.
I’m already in bed when he comes back from the bathroom.
He yawns and scratches his chest absently as he drops his clothes on top of his overnight bag.
His gaze lands on me and he watches me, the same softness in his eyes as earlier.
It felt mysterious downstairs with all the people around. Now it’s just intimate.
His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows.
He starts to say something, but then he just shakes his head and smiles. He climbs onto the bed, knee-walks toward me, and straddles me.
I watch him with wide eyes and a loud heartbeat, my throat dry. He leans down and kisses me.
For a long time that’s all we do.
We kiss and get impossibly hard. Hard enough that the slightest pressure against my cock makes me whimper. His hand grips the hair in the back of my head and mine roam over his back, pulling him closer, pressing against him.
He deepens the kiss as he scoots closer and ends up pressing his hard length against my equally hard cock. His back arches, and he lets out a rush of breath.
I want to touch him everywhere I can, hungry for his skin on mine.
His lips track their way from my mouth to my collarbone. He kisses my throat, sucking the skin between his lips.
One of his hands slides down my chest and brushes the waistband of my boxer briefs, and we both suck in a breath.
His fingers slid under the waistband, the barest of inch before he goes very still, not even moving a muscle. He closes his eyes for a moment before he meets my gaze.
“I got carried away,” he pants and starts to pull back.
I have his wrist in a death grip, keeping his hand in place.
Nerves battle with desire.
I want this, but fuck, that’s another man’s cock against mine, and I’m definitely into that… but does that mean I’ll know what to do with it? How to make it good for him?
I lick my lips.
“Don’t stop,” I say hoarsely.
He studies me for a few seconds, gaze impossibly intent.
He leans forward again abruptly, mouth coming down hard on mine. His hands slide up my chest and curve around my shoulders before starting their trek lower again. His palm grazes my nipple, and I bite back a moan.
His fingers find my waistband again, and this time he doesn’t stop. He tugs my underwear lower. Yanks them so the waistband ends up somewhere below my ass, the elastic just below the head of my cock, keeping it trapped against my abdomen.
I stop breathing for a moment while he sits back on his haunches, straddling me, and lets his eyes wander up and down my body.
Nobody has ever looked at me like Milán does.
Hungrily. This one look makes me forget everything until I’m in a trancelike state, willing to go along with anything he wants to do to me.
He raises his hand to his mouth and licks the pad of his thumb before he brings it down to the tip of my cock and rubs it over the head.
My cock gives a violent jerk, and my lips part on a shaky exhale.
He lowers his head and licks my nipple, keeping his thumb pressed against the slit of my dick. Desperate for something to hold on to, I sink my fingers into his hair. He swirls his tongue around my nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, tongue laving over it in quick swipes.
“Slow,” he says in a strained voice, like he’s reminding himself.
I want to argue.
Give me everything you’ve got. I want it all. Take me. Use me. Do whatever you want.
I chicken out.
I’ll work up to it.
He gets up on his knees and pushes his underwear down his hips and off his legs before he settles back on top of me. His cock juts up, long and hard, demanding all my attention.
It’s not that I’ve never seen another guy’s dick before, but the need to touch one is new.
My stomach tightens with anticipation as I watch him stroke himself. His head falls back and his eyes shut for a moment before they settle on me again. He keeps stroking himself while gifting me with one of those heated looks that makes me feel more exposed than I ever have in my life.
I push my hips up, rubbing the head of my cock against his thumb, arching into the touch with a shameless groan.
“Shh,” Milán whispers with a chuckle.
“You shh,” I pant back, which makes him laugh harder, but he sobers quickly when I cup my own dick.
He pats my hand away with a possessive air. It makes me shiver with need.
“Want to try something?” He quirks a brow.
I nod and lick my lips, waiting.
He leans forward and grips the headboard. His warm, bare cock brushes mine. My hips automatically push up, seeking more. More friction. More pressure.
His eyes stay on me as he spits into his palm, and as he wraps his fingers around my dick. His hand is slick and warm as it slides up and down my length with a firm stroke.
My eyes roll back while the back of my head hits the headboard with a thump.
My blood feels like molten lava sliding through my veins. Pleasure makes my brain feel sluggish.
He’s not done with me.
He moves forward and lines up our lower bodies. My cock brushes against his again right before Milán pushes them together, fisting them in his hand before he goes back to stroking.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. Looking at what he’s doing to me—to us—is almost too much, but I can’t not look. It’s the single hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I nearly come from just the sight.
His hand is large, skin warm, grip tight. His fingers are long, strokes firm. The skin of his cock is velvet-soft and the feel of it against my own is stupidly hot.
He sends me a crooked smirk before he lowers his head and a string of spit trickles down onto the head of my cock from between his lips. Everything gets even slicker.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I pant, toes curling.
He laughs. His hand moves up and down, up and down. My hips pick up the rhythm as I push into his fist with increasing desperation. I’m close, but not close enough. Reaching for a release that’s just out of reach. Wound tight and aching.
I’m so fucking hard that I’m dizzy with it.
He’s taking me apart, bit by bit, and then putting the pieces back together.
I want it.
I’m into it.
That’s an understatement.
It feels like I’m about to die.
He pants harshly, his movements growing clumsier, faster. Something about the way he curses when he loses his hold on us makes it all even better.
Finally, he groans and yanks me lower on the bed so I’m on my back, and then we’re rutting against each other with no finesse, just pure urgency.
“Jordy,” he rasps into my ear.
Something about the rawness of his voice hits me right in the middle of my chest, and then I’m arching my back. A searing bolt of pleasure smashes into me. My dick pulses and shoots, the heat of my release making our bodies slick.
Milán pushes himself up, balancing on one arm above me, jacking himself furiously with the other until the muscles of his abdomen clench, and he comes all over my stomach, adding more cum to the mess. It gathers in my belly button, droplets sliding down my sides.
We’re both panting loudly, unable to catch our breaths.
He slumps on top of me.
His weight is a welcome distraction from thinking too much.
“Okay?” he mutters into the side of my neck.
Am I?
I feel rearranged.
He lifts his head when I fail to answer.
“Jordy?”
We’re lying in a mess of sheets, Milán half on top of me, one arm thrown over my chest, one thigh over mine.
“I’m good,” I say, and the moment those words leave my lips, I realize they’re a hundred percent true. I mean it. I smile and kiss him.
“Better than good. Just right.”