Chapter 22
Eight fucking days of thinking about him—about this exact mouth, about the way his hands felt when they decided something, about the low sounds he made just for me.
My dick was already aching, pressing against the front of my jeans like it had been counting every single hour right along with me. I was so horny I could barely think straight, heat pulsing low and urgent in my gut.
“Nathan,” I said again, the name rough and needy in my throat. I didn’t even try to hide it this time.
He made that quiet processing sound, and then his hands slid down to my ass, gripping me firmly and lifting just enough to seat me on the edge of the counter. The bowls rattled behind me.
I didn’t care.
I wrapped my legs around his hips and ground up against him, feeling the hard line of his cock through his slacks. I wanted him naked. I wanted him inside me. I wanted everything, right now.
“Fuck, I want you,” I muttered, mouth already moving to his throat, sucking at the skin just above his open collar.
He tasted like clean soap and faint salt, and I groaned against him, hips rolling shamelessly. My hands shoved under his shirt, palms sliding over warm skin and the tight ridges of his abs.
“You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about you. In the shower. In my fucking car after practice. Eight days, Nathan. I’m so goddamn hard it hurts. I need you to fuck me.”
He exhaled, the sound shaky, and his fingers dug into my thighs. “Wesley.”
I reached between us and palmed him through his pants, stroking the thick length of him with quick, greedy strokes. He was fully hard now, straining against the fabric, and the low groan he let out went straight to my balls.
“Bedroom,” I gasped against his mouth. “Now. Before I lose my mind right here on your perfectly considered bowls.”
Nathan didn’t argue. He hauled me off the counter in one smooth motion, my legs still wrapped around his waist, and started walking us down the hall. We crashed into the wall halfway there and then stumbled again when my shoulder caught the doorframe.
I was too busy kissing him to care, tongues sliding hot and messy, my hands tangled in his black hair. The low lamp and the music faded behind us. All I could feel was the solid heat of him, promising exactly what I’d been craving for eight long days.
We made it to the bedroom in a tangle of limbs and half-shed clothes.
Nathan kicked the door shut behind us and dropped me onto his bed, following me down.
I yanked his shirt the rest of the way off, then shoved at his slacks while he stripped me with the same focused efficiency.
In seconds we were both naked, skin hot and flushed, cocks sliding together as we rutted against each other on the sheets.
I broke the kiss just long enough to pant, “Condom. Lube. Please tell me you have them.” My voice was wrecked already. “And I’m bottoming. Don’t even try to argue—I’ve been thinking about your cock inside me for eight days straight.”
He leaned down and kissed me once, slow and deliberate, then nudged my thighs apart. He settled between them, one big hand stroking up the inside of my leg while the other dripped lube onto his fingers.
“Patience, Wesley,” he said, voice low. “I’m not rushing this part.”
I groaned in frustration, hips twitching up. “Nathan, I’ve been patient for eight fucking days—”
The first slick finger circled my hole, teasing, then pushed in slow and steady. My words cut off on a sharp inhale.
“And I haven’t been, too?” he asked. Nathan worked it in deep, crooked it just right, and I saw stars.
A second finger joined the first a minute later, scissoring gently, stretching me open with that same infuriating thoroughness he brought to everything.
Every twist of his wrist, every press against my prostate, felt deliberate—like he was learning me, memorizing exactly how I fell apart.
“Fuck—Nathan—” I gasped, one hand fisting the sheets, the other reaching down to grip his wrist, not stopping him, just holding on.
My cock was leaking steadily onto my stomach, twitching every time he brushed that spot.
“You’re killing me. I’m so horny I’m gonna lose it before you even get inside. ”
He didn’t speed up. Blue eyes stayed locked on my face, watching every flutter of my lashes, every bitten-off moan.
“Good,” he said, adding a third finger and twisting them just so. “I want to feel you like this. Open for me. Needy.”
The words hit harder than the stretch. I whined, hips rolling down onto his hand, chasing the burn and the pleasure.
I was a mess already—blond hair sticking to my forehead, chest heaving, shorter frame trembling under his taller one.
Nathan looked completely in control, black hair falling across his forehead, jaw tight with restraint, but his cock was flushed dark and leaking against his thigh, so I knew he wasn’t as calm as he seemed.
Finally—finally—he pulled his fingers out, rolled the condom on with steady hands, and slicked himself up.
He leaned down and kissed me once, slow and deliberate, then flipped me onto my stomach like it was nothing. The casual strength of it sent another spike of heat through me—God, I loved how strong he was—but I twisted immediately, pushing back against his chest.
“No,” I said, voice suddenly quieter, more serious than I meant it to be. “Not like that. I want to see you. I want to see your eyes while you’re inside me.”
Nathan went still for half a second, then his expression softened, blue eyes darkening with something deeper than just heat.
He nodded once, understanding without needing more words, and gently rolled me onto my back again.
He settled between my thighs, one hand lifting my knee to hook over his hip, the other bracing beside my head as he lined himself up.
“Like this?” he asked, voice low and rough, forehead almost touching mine.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Like this. Don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
Nathan pushed in slow—inch by thick inch—eyes locked on mine the whole time.
The stretch burned in the best way, full and deep, and I moaned loud, hands clutching at his shoulders.
He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush against my ass, and for a moment we just breathed together, brown eyes to blue, nothing between us but heat and eight days of want.
Then he started to move.
And fuck, that was everything, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, grinding deep on every thrust like he wanted me to feel every single second.
The eye contact made it overwhelming. I couldn’t hide, couldn’t joke my way out of it.
Every broken whimper, every time my cock jerked against my stomach—he saw it all.
His black hair fell across his forehead, damp with sweat, and those blue eyes never left mine, even when his rhythm started to pick up, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin filling the room.
“Fuck—Nathan—” I gasped, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “You feel so good. So fucking deep. Don’t stop looking at me.”
He didn’t. He fucked me steady and relentless, one hand wrapping around my cock and stroking in time with his thrusts, thumb sweeping over the head just right. The pressure built fast, coiling tight in my gut, and I could feel myself starting to shake.
“Come on, Wesley,” he murmured, voice gravelly, eyes still locked on mine. “Let me see you cum.”
That was all it took. I came hard, spilling over his fist and across my own stomach with a choked cry, eyes wide open and staring straight into his. Nathan followed seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning my name as he pulsed inside me, hips stuttering through it.
We stayed like that afterward, breathing hard, still connected. Nathan brushed a strand of my blond hair off my forehead, his touch gentle now, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
I laughed.
Not the performance laugh. The real one, the one that came from somewhere I didn't usually let people see, and it was out before I knew it was happening, slightly hysterical, slightly undone, the laugh of someone who had been running on three a.m. thoughts and mid-practice distraction for eight days and had just arrived somewhere and couldn't quite believe they were there.
Nathan pulled back slightly to look at me.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. Still laughing.
"Wesley."
"I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm laughing at—" I stopped. Gestured vaguely at the room, at the ceiling, at the general situation. "This."
He looked at me for a moment. Something moved through his expression—the wall Nathan usually had up was nowhere, hadn't been anywhere for a while, and what was underneath it was Nathan looking at me laughing in his bed like this was something he was going to need a moment with.
"The bowls," I said.
"Stop bringing up the bowls," he said.
"You thought about the depth, Nathan."
"I'm going to regret telling you that."
"Probably," I said.
He looked at me for another second. And then something happened on his face that I had been collecting for months and had never seen quite like this—the full version, unguarded, in the low lamp light with the city outside the window and both of us exactly where we were.
He laughed.
The first full laugh I'd ever heard from Nathan Cross, and it was in his bedroom at whatever time it was with his forehead dropping briefly to my shoulder and his hand still in my hair and I felt it in my chest like something had settled into a place it had been looking for for a long time.
I didn’t feel like a temporary thing anymore.
I felt like someone he had planned for.
"Nathan," I said.
"Mm."
"I'm not going home tonight."
A pause.
"I know," he said.
"We should eat," I said.
"Yes.”
"In a minute," I said.
"In a minute," he agreed.
We lay there.
The food got colder.
Neither of us minded.