Chapter 39
OLIVER
The thing about Ryan Abrams is that he approaches everything like a perfectionist. His side of the dorm room is organized by color and function.
His notes are color-coded and cross-referenced.
His wardrobe is arranged by decade and occasion.
So it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s applying that same meticulous attention to taking me apart.
But it does surprise me. It surprises the hell out of me.
His hand moves in steady strokes, finding a rhythm that has me gripping the sheets, the only thing tethering me to reality. Every few seconds, he adjusts something—the pressure, the speed, the angle—cataloging my reactions in a way that would be unnerving if it wasn’t so goddamn hot.
“Oliver.” His voice is low, wondering. “You’re really responsive tonight.”
“I’m aware.” The words come out through gritted teeth as another wave of pleasure rolls through me.
“No, I mean—” He pauses his ministrations, and I nearly sob at the loss. “Look.”
I force my eyes open, following his gaze downward. My cock is flushed and straining in his grip, the curved length glistening with precome that’s started to drip down his fingers and pool on my stomach. There’s a lot of it. More than I’ve ever produced alone, certainly.
“That’s new,” I admit breathlessly. “That’s—you’re doing that. You’re making me leak.”
“I need a towel.”
“What?”
But Ryan is already moving, sliding off the bed. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a hand towel, which he uses to carefully clean the mess from my stomach and his hand. “There,” he says, satisfied. “Now I can keep going without losing my grip.”
“Ryan, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He settles back between my legs, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch.
Hunger, yes, but also wonder. Like he can’t quite believe this is happening.
Like he’s been given a gift he never expected.
“I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel. Better, if I can.”
“You already are,” I tell him honestly. “Just being here with you is—”
His hand wraps around me again, and whatever sentiment I was about to express dissolves into a groan.
The second round of attention is more confident than the first. Apparently, Ryan has gathered data and is putting it to use.
He knows now that I like it when he twists at the top, that the underside of my head is particularly sensitive, that slow strokes make me whimper while fast ones make me curse.
He’s learning me. And the thought of being known like this is almost more than I can handle.
“Oliver?” His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure.
“Yeah?”
“I want to try something else.”
My brain, fuzzy with arousal, takes a moment to process this. “Something else?”
“I’ve been reading.” Of course, he has. “About other things that feel good. Things that might be new. For both of us.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, studying his face. His cheeks are flushed, his hair disheveled from where I ran my fingers through it earlier, and there’s a determined set to his jaw.
“What kind of things?” I ask carefully.
Ryan’s flush deepens, spreading down his neck and across his chest. “I want to—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “I’d like to explore your…posterior region.”
I blink. “My…posterior region.”
“Your buttocks. Your rear end. Your—”
“Ryan, are you asking if you can eat my ass?”
The words are crude and direct in a way that Ryan’s old-fashioned phrasing wasn’t. For a moment, I think I’ve shocked him. Then his chin lifts, and that determined expression intensifies.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “That’s exactly what I’m asking. If you’re amenable.”
Amenable. Jesus Christ.
“I’m amenable,” I hear myself say. “Very amenable. Better yet, I’m enthusiastically amenable.”
“Oh, good.” Relief floods his features. “I wasn’t sure if you’d—I mean, I know some people don’t like that, but I’ve read that it can be quite pleasurable if done correctly, and I thought perhaps—”
“Ryan.”
“Yes?”
“Stop talking and tell me how you want me.”
His eyes go dark, the hazel nearly swallowed by his pupils. “On your hands and knees,” he says, and his voice has dropped into a register I’ve never heard before. Lower. Rougher. Commanding in a way that makes my cock twitch against my stomach. “Please.”
I roll over, positioning myself on all fours with my ass presented to my boyfriend like some kind of offering. The vulnerability of the position should feel strange, but with Ryan, it feels right. Natural. Like we’ve been building toward this moment our entire lives.
“Golly,” Ryan breathes behind me, and despite everything, I laugh.
“Did you just say ‘golly’ while staring at my ass?”
“It’s a very impressive ass. The sentiment seemed warranted.”
His hands land on my cheeks, tentative at first, then firmer as he grows more confident. He squeezes experimentally, and I feel the muscle give under his grip—hockey player glutes, built for power and endurance, and now also built for Ryan Abrams’s appreciative exploration.
“I can see why you and the team are so proud of these,” he murmurs, kneading the flesh with both hands. “They’re quite substantial.”
“Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” He spreads me open, and cool air hits my hole, making me shiver. “Now, according to my research, I should start slowly. Build anticipation. Let you relax into the sensation.”
“Your research,” I repeat faintly.
“I found several very informative articles. And a few instructional videos that were quite educational.”
“You watched porn to prepare for this.”
“I watched educational content,” Ryan corrects primly. “The fact that it happened to be explicit in nature is merely incidental to its value.”
I drop my head between my shoulders, caught between arousal and hysterical laughter. “Ryan Abrams, you are the most ridiculous person I have ever met, and I am so incredibly in love with you.”
The words slip out without permission. I freeze. Behind me, Ryan goes very still.
“You—” His voice cracks. “You love me?”
Fuck. This wasn’t how I planned to say it. I had a whole speech prepared, something romantic and meaningful, not blurted out while naked on all fours waiting to have my ass eaten. But the words are out now, and I can’t take them back.
I don’t want to take them back.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, turning my head to look at him over my shoulder. “I love you, Ryan. I’ve loved you since we were kids, I think.”
Ryan stares at me, his eyes bright with something that might be tears. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to the small of my back, right above the curve of my ass.
“I love you too,” he whispers against my skin. “I love you so much it terrifies me.”
The moment stretches between us, tender and raw and perfect. Then Ryan pulls back, and when he speaks again, his voice has regained some of its earlier determination.
“Now,” he says, “I’m going to make you feel so good you’ll forget your own name. As a demonstration of my affection.”
“That’s very romantic.”
“I thought so.”
His thumbs spread me open again. The first touch of his tongue against my hole makes me jolt forward, a strangled sound escaping my throat, and I end up banging my head against the wall. “Ah, fuck.” I rub my head even as I tell him to do it again.
Each pass of his tongue grows more confident, more deliberate, until he’s laving at me with long, slow strokes that have my arms trembling with the effort of holding myself up.
“Now—” I have to stop, collect myself, remember how words work. “Now try pointing your tongue. Pressing against the center.”
Ryan obeys, and the sensation shifts from diffuse pleasure to focused intensity. His tongue prods at my entrance, not quite breaching, just applying pressure that makes my whole body clench with want.
“Shit,” I gasp. “Yeah, just like that. You can—if you want—you can try pushing inside.”
The sound Ryan makes is somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Then his tongue is pressing forward, slipping past the ring of muscle, and I see all the stars in the galaxy.
“Oh God.” My voice has gone high and desperate. “Oh God, Ryan, that’s—”
He pulls back slightly, and I nearly sob at the loss. “Is it okay? Am I doing it right?”
“You’re doing it perfectly. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
What follows is an education in pleasure that I wasn’t prepared for. He experiments with depth and angle, with the flat of his tongue versus the point, with slow drags and quick flicks that make my toes curl against the sheets.
And through it all, he makes sounds. Little moans of satisfaction, hums of approval when I react particularly strongly, murmured words of praise that I can barely hear over the roaring in my ears.
“You taste incredible,” he says at one point, his breath hot against my sensitized flesh. “I wasn’t expecting—I thought it might be strange, but it’s not. It’s you.”
I’m going to die. That’s the only explanation for what’s happening to me. Ryan Abrams is going to kill me with his tongue and his words, and my obituary is going to read “Death by Rimjob.”
“Ryan,” I gasp, my arms finally giving out. I collapse forward onto my forearms, my ass still raised in the air. “Ryan, I need—I want—”
He pulls back, and I can hear him breathing hard behind me. “What do you need?”
“You.” The word comes out raw, stripped of any pretense. “Inside me. Please.”
The silence that follows is loaded. I turn my head, trying to see his face, and find him staring at me with an expression that’s equal parts terrified and determined.
“Are you sure?” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’ve never—I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” I shift, rolling onto my back so I can face him properly. The movement puts my curved cock on full display, still hard, still leaking, still desperately aching for release. “Check the nightstand for lube and condoms. Jackson may have left us supplies along with the fresh sheets.”
Ryan’s eyebrows shoot up. “You think?”
“I think.”