10. Lennox #3
I ground down on him again, harder this time, and he moaned, deep and low, right against my throat. It wasn’t just lust. It was longing. That aching, trembling edge where pleasure met need and neither one could be separated anymore.
“I can’t stop,” he whispered. “Not with you.”
“Don’t,” I said, brushing his temple with my lips. “Just…don’t stop.”
Our rhythm grew feverish. Messier. Perfect.
We clung to each other like drowning men sharing the same air, locked in a rhythm older than reason. I held him through it. I felt the full-body tremble that overtook him, the way he gritted his teeth to keep from falling apart too soon.
He touched my face like I was the fragile one. Like I was the precious thing, even though we both knew he would be the first to crack.
It undid me more than anything else.
My dick dragged inches up and down between our pressed bodies, rubbing just enough to drive me wild. I leaned back, freeing it of the unbearable friction, letting it rise, and planted my hands behind my back, just between Oliver’s spread legs.
He thrust himself off the floor, lifting me with him and sinking all the way into me. The rapture of pleasure passed through me, splitting me in half.
Sweat trickled down the sides of my face, and I looked at Oliver.
Beads were collecting on his brow, his cheeks pink and flushed with exertion.
He kept his pace, penetrating me with vigor that threatened to destroy me.
I welcomed it. I craved every thrust, every sudden bolt of pain, every spilling warmth of pleasure he could offer.
And when my abs tensed, when my head fell back, when Oliver wrapped his hand around my aching cock, I didn’t have the slightest bit of strength to fight it.
I wanted it to last, but that was never going to happen. I wanted him inside me all night, but time was not on our side. I wanted to be fucked like this for the rest of my life, but the rest of my life was something I had promised not to ask for.
So I gave in to him.
I surrendered.
I let the rising tide of lust and longing fill me to the brim, then shatter me.
Cum spilled in violent ribbons of whiteness, spraying my abs with its heated kisses, and trickled over Oliver’s tight fist. He stroked me still as I panted and cried.
He jerked his fist harder, squeezing every last drop out of me until the throbbing of my cock waned and the last of my jizz had drained.
His dick pulsed hard inside of me, and I hated the condom with irrational viciousness. It was the first thing I would do tomorrow, get the tests and drugs and the whole thing done, because I needed more of him. I needed us to join without that last barrier.
Oliver came with grunts and rough thrusts of his hips. He wrapped his arms tightly around my waist and yanked me down, his balls pressed against my ass, his dick calming down inside my body.
It was only then that I let myself inhale again.
For the longest time, we stayed there, shivering, trembling with exhaustion and pleasure, until I lifted my ass a little, letting his semi-soft cock slip out of me.
Oliver took care of the condom, then pulled me down.
I lay half-sprawled over him, skin still damp with sweat and cum, my thigh tucked between his legs, my arm heavy across his chest. His heart beat against my wrist, steady and strong, like the rest of him.
One of his hands rested lightly against my ribs, fingers splayed as if he hadn’t decided whether to hold me or let me go.
His other arm was folded behind his head, baring the curve of his bicep and the long line of his neck.
I watched it rise and fall with each breath.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw slack, lashes dark against flushed cheekbones. He looked wrecked in the best way. Quietly, almost suspiciously, at peace.
And stupidly, dangerously beautiful.
I let my gaze travel the sharp edge of his profile. That proud nose, the slight flare of his nostrils, the little twitch in his jaw when he was deep in thought. And I knew that I was screwed.
Utterly, completely screwed.
Because I wasn’t just looking at a hookup.
I wasn’t even looking at the boy from the cabin anymore.
I was looking at Oliver Hayworth like he was something permanent.
Like he had embedded himself in the marrow of my bones and I hadn’t noticed until now, until my chest felt so swollen with it I could barely breathe.
His skin still tasted like salt and heat. My lips brushed the top of his chest, right where his collarbone dipped, and he exhaled slowly, eyelids fluttering. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The way he shifted, letting his leg slide over mine, drawing me closer without words, was enough.
If I had a single ounce of self-preservation, I would’ve gotten up. Started dressing. Cracked a joke. Changed the subject. Instead, I melted into him, resting my head over his heart, feeling every thud like it was syncing with my own.
He brought his hand up and threaded his fingers through my curls lazily. My eyes fluttered shut.
I was in trouble.
And I never wanted to solve this problem.