Chapter 7
The words settle between us, dense and heavy as the snow outside.
It’s you.
I turn my head, my cheek scraping against the sleeping bag, until I can see his face. Ace is looking down at me, his eyes a darker shade of blue than before, no trace of laughter in them now.
“Me?” I whisper, the word barely audible.
“Yeah, you.” His hips press forward again, and those nine inches I got such a good look at last night are a hot, hard line against me.
“From the minute I saw you at the airport. All shy and serious with your little notebook and that huge backpack. I thought, ‘fuck, this guy is cute.’ Then you started talking about yeti migration patterns and vocalizations, and I was done for.”
I’m speechless. My brain is struggling to catch up, to process this information, to understand how I’ve so thoroughly misread every interaction we’ve had.
“B-but you’re straight. You talked about girls. You—”
“I never said I was straight.” His thumb moves in slow circles on the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse point. “You assumed.”
He’s right. I did assume. Because guys who look like Ace, guys who are so effortlessly masculine, they’re not into guys like me. They’re not into guys, period. That’s not how the world works.
“I’ve been losing my mind,” he continues. “Trying to figure out if you felt it too. The way you looked at me sometimes. The way you got all flustered when I took off my clothes. But I couldn’t be sure.”
I think about last night, about him jerking off, about him leaving the tent flap open just a crack. About that lazy, knowing grin when he caught me watching.
“Was that on purpose?” I ask. “Last night?”
He grins, a flash of white teeth in the firelight. “Maybe. I was hoping you’d come in and join me. Didn’t expect you to stand there and just… watch.” He pauses. “Though I gotta say, that was pretty fucking hot.”
And there I was, thinking I’d been so subtle, so careful.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Hey.” He catches my chin with his free hand, turning my face toward him.
“Stop apologizing.” His thumb traces my jawline.
“It’s okay to want something, Simon. It’s okay to want me.
Because I really, really want you too.” He leans down, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but he stops just short of my lips.
“I’ve been walking around half-hard for three days, and it’s all your fault. ”
My breath hitches.
“So the question is,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over mine, “what are we gonna do about it?”
I answer with the only thing my body is capable of: I crash my mouth against his, closing that infuriating half-inch of space between us.
The kiss is clumsy at first, all desperation and pent-up tension.
My teeth scrape his lip, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
He deepens the kiss, tilting my head back with a firm grip on my jaw.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of M&M’s and the bitter coffee we drank this morning.
He kisses with the same intensity he does everything else, a complete and total focus that leaves no room for doubt.
I’ve only ever kissed girls before, and it was never like this. Never this consuming. Never this… right.
His hands are everywhere. They run down my sides, over my hips, then back up my chest to tweak my nipples, which makes me gasp into his mouth. All the while, he’s still got me pinned beneath him, grinding that huge, hard cock against my ass in a slow, maddening rhythm.
Ace pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against mine. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Three days?” I manage.
“Three very long days.” He kisses me again, softer this time, a series of small, nibbling kisses at the corner of my mouth, my jaw, my throat. “You’re so responsive. I love it.”
It’s true. He’s mapped my nervous system in a matter of minutes. He knows exactly where to touch me to make me arch, where to bite to make me gasp. He knows the pressure points on my neck, the sensitive skin on my inner thighs. He’s a fast learner, and my body is the textbook.
“Ace,” I gasp. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He nips at my earlobe. “Tell me what you want, Simon.”
“Get rid of these,” I say, tugging at the waistband of my boxers.
He grins against my neck. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He sits back on his heels, and the loss of his weight makes me whimper. But then he hooks his thumbs into my boxers and starts pulling them down. I lift my hips to help, and the sticky, wet fabric peels away from my cock, which springs free. There’s a string of precum connecting it to my stomach.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Your underwear’s soaked.” His fingers trace the wet patch on the fabric. “Have you been leaking this much the whole time?”
My face burns, but I’m too far gone to care. “Yes.”
“Fucking hell.” He tosses them aside and pulls off his own boxers in one clean motion.
His monster of a cock juts from a thatch of dark hair, the head flushed a deep, angry red, a bead of precum already welling at the slit.
It looks even bigger in the daylight, and seeing it now, knowing it’s that hard because of me, sends a sharp punch of need through my gut.
I push up on my elbows, and before I even register the choice, I’m reaching for him.
And not just reaching. My tongue is already out, catching the drop of liquid pooling at the tip.
I don’t know where this is coming from. I have no experience with this.
But instinct takes over, and suddenly I have the head of his cock in my mouth, sucking on it.
Ace sucks in a sharp breath. “Oh, fuck.”
I can’t take much of him. He’s too big, stretching my jaw uncomfortably.
But I do my best, working my tongue over the sensitive underside, tasting the salt of him, the slight bitterness of the precum.
I wrap my hand around the base, my fingers not even close to meeting, and start stroking him in a clumsy rhythm that matches the movement of my mouth.
I’m fumbling. Inept. I don’t know the first thing about giving a blowjob.
But Ace doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seems to like it. His hands are tangled in my hair, holding my head in place, and he’s making these rough, choked noises deep in his chest.
“Christ, Simon,” he growls. “Your fucking mouth.”
I pull back for a second, gasping for air, a string of spit connecting my lips to the head of his cock. “Am I… am I doing it right?”
“Are you kidding me?” He’s breathing hard, his chest heaving. “Get back on there.”
I do, taking him deeper this time, trying to relax my throat. The feel of his hard cock filling my mouth is a complete sensory overload: the musky scent of him, the weight of him on my tongue, the power in the muscles of his thighs as they tense under my hands.
This isn’t something I ever imagined doing, but here, now, in this tent with the snowstorm raging outside, I can’t imagine doing anything else. Why would I? This is better than discovering those footprints.
Ace lets me have my way for a good while, letting me explore that rigid pole of flesh, learning its shape, its texture, its taste.
He seems to enjoy watching me learn, enjoy the way my eyes widen when I take him a little too deep and have to pull back, gagging.
He enjoys my inexperience. I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, half-lidded, a smirk playing on his lips.
But then he takes control. His hands tighten in my hair, and he starts to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, hitting the back of my throat. My eyes water, and I force myself to breathe through my nose as he sets a punishing rhythm.
“How’s that feel?” he asks. “Too much?”
I shake my head as best I can with his cock in my mouth. It’s almost too much, but not quite. I like it. I like the ache in my jaw, the way I’m completely at his mercy.
“Good.” He pushes deeper, and I feel my throat open for him. I take more of him than I thought possible, my nose pressing into the wiry hair at his base. “That’s it. Take it all. Such a good boy.”
The praise makes me work harder, hollowing my cheeks, sucking with all my might. I want to be good for him. I want him to feel as good as he made me feel with his hands, his body. My own cock is leaking onto the sleeping bag, a hot, wet mess I’m currently ignoring.
After a few more deep thrusts, he pulls out, breathing hard. His cock is slick with my spit, glistening in the firelight. It looks even more intimidating now, the veins standing out in sharp relief, the head dark and swollen. A long, clear string of precum drips from the tip and lands on my thigh.
“You’re good at that,” he says, pushing me back down onto the sleeping bag. “Too fucking good.”
He kisses me again, a deep, possessive kiss. His hand slides between us, wrapping around my aching cock.
“Oh god,” I gasp into his mouth. His grip is firm, and he starts to stroke me, a slow, torturous twist of his wrist that has me arching off the sleeping bag.
“You’re so hard,” he murmurs against my lips. “You were so desperate for it, weren’t you? Walking around with this hard-on for days. Thinking you were being so subtle.”
I can’t deny it. He’s been driving me crazy. I’ve been a mess of hormones and confusion, and it all comes pouring out now in a series of choked moans and helpless thrusts into his fist.
“I want to fuck you,” he says outright. His thumb smears the precum leaking from my slit, circling the sensitive head. “I want to be inside you, Simon.”
His hips press forward, and the hard, hot length of him slides between my ass cheeks, nudging at my hole. There’s no fabric between us now, just skin on skin, and the feel of him there, so close, makes my entire body clench with anticipation.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Fuck me, Ace.”