Chapter 8
EIGHT
Their noses were touching still. Wyatt’s breath ghosted across Jesse’s mouth. And for a second, one stupid, dumb, hanging second, for the freaking second time in as many hours, Jesse was sure that Wyatt was gonna kiss him.
Didn’t, though. Wyatt, he didn’t.
Just ducked his head and pressed a kiss to the hollow of Jesse’s throat. Still made Jesse moan, that nothing of a kiss. The moaning kicked up a gear when Wyatt rucked up Jesse’s itchy sweater and started kissing his way down Jesse’s bare sternum, a trail of kisses, softly teasing.
Jesse sucked in an unsteady breath, his belly hitching too, instinctive, a shivery flinch at the first hot press of Wyatt’s lips. “What’re you doing?” he gasped out.
But Jesse wasn’t a complete idiot. Intention and direction were both pretty clear. He knew exactly what Wyatt was doing and exactly where he was headed.
“Just keeping you company, bud,” Wyatt murmured, reaching for Jesse’s fly. The eyebrow ticked. “You know. Carnally.”
Jesse pushed at Wyatt’s shoulder, laughing. Wyatt didn’t move an inch. Just popped buttons and tugged on zippers until he had eyes on the dubious prize.
“Jesus,” Wyatt whispered, sounding breathless. Sounding like the breath had been sucked outta him, honestly. “Jesus, Jess. Fuck.”
The panties were Jesse’s favorite pair. He didn’t wear them too often, because they didn’t fit. Not really. Pale blue satin with a little pale blue bow up top. Smaller than the pink pair and shiny with it, kinda slinky too, the feel of them, when they slipped and slid against his skin.
Jesse didn’t know why he’d decided to pull them on that morning, in the middle of his morning-after freakout. A fucked-up comfort blanket, maybe. If he couldn’t have his favorite flannel, he could have his favorite panties instead. And besides, it wasn’t like he’d planned on Wyatt finding out.
But Wyatt had found out — in the most up close and personal way possible — and now Wyatt wasn’t saying anything.
He was just staring, still.
“Wyatt…” Jesse was a multilingual guy. He could speak three languages on a good day, four on an even better night. He had no idea what that look was saying.
It was just there, looking there, heavy and dark and unblinking. Jesse shifted, a little restless suddenly. Unease creeped in around the warm fuzziness, a jagged, roughed-up edge that caught and tugged and tore.
“I’ve only got one pair of shorts left,” he said, pulling away a little, fighting the urge to curl in on himself. “These fit. It’s not—”
“It’s fucking hot,” Wyatt cut in, sure and sudden, looking up to meet Jesse’s gaze. “Is what it is.”
They stared at each other, all the pieces clicking into place, all the cogs starting to turn, all those tried and tested cliches grinding their way to orgasm.
Jesse’s throat clicked around his swallow. “Is it?”
“Fuck,” Wyatt said. “Yes.” He said it like his voice was ground-up granite, freaking shards of obsidian, a black sand beach in Hawaii or Iceland or some other place that got fucked up by volcanos on the regular.
Jesse felt a little ground up too, in a way that felt nothing but good. “Okay.” He nodded, like maybe Wyatt needed the extra clarification. “Yeah. Okay. That’s good.”
Wyatt’s breath gusted on a disbelieving laugh. “Better than good, bud.” He grabbed Jesse by the waist, shaking him a little, like Jesse had just inspired a hit of cuteness aggression or some shit.
Which was shit, because Jesse was a whole heap of things, and cute wasn’t one of them.
Wyatt didn’t seem to care, though. He yanked off Jesse’s sweater and then tugged his jeans off too. No finesse, not even trying to be fancy or seductive or shit. Just yanking until he had open and easy access to Jesse dressed in nothing but a little pair of shiny satin panties.
And, like, wasn’t much to look at.
Jesse wasn’t even all the way hard. There’d been some dwindling during his interlude of sadsack self-reflection. He was half-chub, not exactly putting on an impressive display for his mindfuckingly appreciative audience.
But that didn’t seem to matter. Not to Wyatt, at least.
Because he was looking at Jesse like Jesse was worth looking at. But more than that. Not just looking. Not only looking.
Appreciating was the word, maybe, but with something kinda wondering in that look too, like the sight of Jesse dressed in nothing but panties was Wonder-of-the-World-level shit.
Jesse didn’t get it, not even a little. But even he wasn’t stupid enough to argue with Wyatt. So he let Wyatt look his fill, and that’s what Wyatt did, just holding Jesse there, both of them watching as Jesse’s dick twitched helplessly under the slippery satin of his panties.
“Fuck,” Wyatt breathed. “Jesus.”
He pushed Jesse’s thighs wide, bullying between them with the bulk and span of his shoulders.
The scrape of his beard against Jesse’s inner thighs was a crazy feeling.
It made Jesse yelp out a shocked, shocky little moan, then nothing so little about it when he felt stubble scrape gentle across his balls, the prickle clear through the delicate satin.
“Fucking god.” Jesse’s breath hitched and caught.
“Oh my fucking god, Wyatt.” He was shifting his hips restlessly, lifting them, pushing up and in toward Wyatt.
He couldn’t stop. Some horny force was jerking his strings instead of his cock.
It was torture, except if torture was good and nothing except anticipation.
Wyatt laughed, low. “Like that, bud?”
Jesse felt it. He felt it. “Like it? Wyatt, my dude, if you don’t touch my dick in the next ten seconds, I’m legit gonna come in my shorts.”
“Panties,” Wyatt said.
Jesse blinked at Wyatt. The hardness of his cock was in direct correlation to the softness of his brain, turned to mush and liquified, dribbling out of his horny ears. “Huh?”
“Panties,” Wyatt said again. “You’re wearing panties, bud, not shorts.” The eyebrow did the thing. “And maybe that’s what I want. Ever think about that, huh?”
Wyatt was looking up at Jesse from between Jesse’s spread legs. Wyatt’s mouth was so close to Jesse’s cock that Jesse could feel his breath ghosting through satin. Jesse was no longer capable of coherent thought. “Panties?” he tried anyhow, shaking his head. “You wanna wear panties?”
Wyatt shook his head too, letting Jesse feel the scrape of his stubble again. “Just for you to come in yours.” Then the hint of a grin as Wyatt let Jesse register that.
And it registered like a freaking mack truck, brake lines snipped, no escape ramps to be found. “Fuck. God.”
Wyatt wound his arms up around Jesse’s hips and hauled Jesse’s squirming ass back down onto the bed. He held Jesse there and leaned close, and Jesse plain forgot how to breathe — because Wyatt was mouthing at the head of Jesse’s dick through his panties.
Heat and the tease of warm tongue as Wyatt mouthed his way down Jesse’s cock, then down some more to suck softly at Jesse’s balls, to take them into his mouth a little ways, the satin pulling tight.
A hit of pure arousal flew down Jesse’s spine. He had to get a hand in Wyatt’s hair and yank him off. Too close, way too quick. “Stop, fuck.”
Wyatt did. Jesse did too, both of them kinda caught up in the sight: the spit-wet line of Jesse’s cock dark and straining, a crazy contrast to the pale blue of the untouched satin all around.
“Fuck,” Jesse breathed in the exact same second that Wyatt rasped out a torn-up, “God.”
No more stopping. Wyatt got a hand on Jesse and jacked him through wet satin, jacked Jesse with satin, and dragged a whole other crazy sound out of Jesse’s throat besides. A louder one when he did it again.
Wyatt watched Jesse the whole time, not even blinking. He got to see it all, the desperate shift of Jesse’s hips and whatever the fuck Jesse’s eyes were saying. Something equally desperate anyhow. Something a whole lot like begging.
“Fuck,” Wyatt breathed out. “Jesus, Jess. You look so goddamn perfect. So fucking perfect, I can’t—”
He cut himself off like it hurt. One last too-slick-too-much-too-good slide of satin over Jesse’s dick, and then Wyatt hooked Jesse’s panties down under his throbbing, drawn-tight balls.
Jesse’s dick kicked up in the same second, arching up off his belly as Jesse tensed his abs, a reflex he couldn’t stop.
Neither could his cock, flushed and wet and leaking already, dragging out a gleaming string of precum between his belly and his dick, the glistening arc of it pulling tight like fishing line, reaching up for Wyatt — for Wyatt’s hand, his mouth, for bare skin, for anything.
Jesse pressed his head back into the sheets. He shook it a little, trying to ground himself. He tried to pull everything back inside, to find any kind of control or restraint. Didn’t work, though.
Because Wyatt was watching Jesse still — and watching as he leaned low and licked a line up Jesse’s bare cock, root to tip.
“Wyatt,” Jesse ground out, a fucked-up kinda plea. His hands clenched tight in the sheets. His hips lifted, chasing Wyatt’s mouth.
But Wyatt hauled him back down onto the bed and he held Jesse there, his arms hooked tight around Jesse’s thighs. He held Jesse still and down and gave Jesse the grounding pressure that Jesse so fucking desperately needed.
And then he took Jesse into his mouth.
“Oh god, oh fuck.” The words were reedy, already cracking. Jesse pressed his fist to his mouth at the first hit of suction, gentle still but already kicking up, Wyatt taking more of Jesse with every slow, sucking bob of his head.
Jesse could feel that like a lit fuse. Feel it, not see it. He’d screwed his eyes shut at the first touch of Wyatt’s lips, a desperate survival instinct. But Jesse had the survival instincts of a dumb flightless bird, no natural predators to be found. He opened his eyes and made himself look.
Watched as Wyatt sucked him off, his mind as blown as his dick — in theory, at least. Because Schrodinger’s dick was up to bat again, and that horny thought experiment was just as much of a mindfuck the second time around.
Wyatt had all of him, easy.