Chapter 12
TWELVE
Wyatt gentled him through it. He caught Jesse up and turned him, and laid him back out on the rug.
Jesse’s spent cock was trapped by his rucked panties, just the head peeking out, still pearled up. He’d striped his own chest with cum, shooting off long and hard, a horny art installation.
There was a distant urge to put a hand on his dick, to ease out every last drop, but that seemed like cheating somehow, and Jesse didn’t want anything to chase the look in Wyatt’s eyes — didn’t want anything to chase Wyatt ever again.
So, then, the sweep of Wyatt’s hand down Jesse’s belly, the damp weight of something — a cloth from the kitchen, maybe — cleaning Jesse up.
Jesse was soft now, anyway. He always softened up quick after coming. Soft and sensitive and whining softly as Wyatt tucked him away under the pretty lace of his pretty panties.
“God.” It took an insane amount of effort to lift his head again. He did it, though, and Jesse was heavy-lidded and fucked the fuck out as he looked down at himself and at the pink petals chasing a path up the soft mound of his dick. “They fit now,” he whispered.
“Fuck.” Wyatt said it harsh, like the sound was punched out of him. A breath not a word, and rough. He pressed his forehead to Jesse’s. “God, bud.” He said it like a prayer, like some freaking benediction.
The feeling in Jesse’s chest was something pretty close to holy too. “Wyatt.” Just that. All he could say.
Wyatt got it, though. Looked like he was feeling it too. “Sweetheart.”
He tipped his chin down, and Jesse tipped his up, and they were kissing, like the simplest thing in the world.
Nothing pretty. Wasn’t made for TV. A clumsy, smearing press of lips until Jesse got his coordination back.
Then more, building. The touch of tongues.
Wyatt’s teeth nipping at Jesse’s bottom lip. Jesse’s whines swallowed up.
Jesse wriggled under the heavy press of Wyatt’s weight, not grinding, but not not grinding.
Feeling instead — the slick of it, how used and puffy he was between his cheeks.
Jesse could feel his pulse there too, an insistent throb.
He rocked his hips in time, and everything grew a little more urgent.
Just like the sweep of Wyatt’s thumb rubbing over Jesse’s hole. There was a rhythm to that too, kinda, Wyatt pressing in and pulling back just a little ways, on the two-count, on the five-count, then resting there, inside of Jesse. Not even a half inch. Only just the pad of Wyatt’s thumb, really.
“I want it,” Jesse whispered against Wyatt’s mouth, because he needed Wyatt to hear that, needed Wyatt to drag himself over the mental block of responsibility that was holding him back.
“I want it so fucking bad.” Jesse took a shuddery breath.
“I, uh…” Then he made himself say it, before the embarrassment grew too hot.
“I got myself ready for you. Shouldn’t let that go to waste, right? ”
Wyatt’s grip tightened at his hip. Jesse felt each divot like they were chiseled there, Wyatt’s fingers and Jesse’s skin, a creepily realistic marble statue.
“Ready?” Wyatt croaked out.
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “Pretty lucky Mr. Tinfoil Hat was an all-round prepper.” Because Jesse had found everything he needed in a conspicuously unlabeled box in one of the bathroom storage closets. “Like, always be prepared, right?”
Wyatt didn’t reply. Wyatt wasn’t saying anything at all. Just staring down at Jesse like Jesse was the sunrise or the sunset, all that poetic bullshit.
“We got a long, cold winter ahead of us.” Jesse socked Wyatt in the shoulder, trying on a sleazy grin. “Gotta keep ourselves entertained somehow.”
Wyatt still wasn’t saying anything. Maybe his brain was lagging like Jesse’s did sometimes. Maybe he needed a reboot.
“My butthole,” Jesse said, “is the entertainment.”
One long breath, a little disbelieving. “I got that, bud.”
“Good. Just, you know, clarifying.”
Wasn’t a joke or even a little funny, but Wyatt still breathed his laugh against Jesse’s shoulder. Jesse held on tight. Stroked his hands through Wyatt’s hair, swept them down the muscled lines of his back.
It took a minute, but Wyatt dragged himself away from Jesse’s sweaty skin. He cupped Jesse’s cheek, one big hand, and he was all about that eye contact when he said, “You sure?”
Jesse kinda wasn’t, suddenly. He’d been down bad for Wyatt’s monster cock for weeks, for the thought of it, that horned-up fantasy.
But now that Jesse could feel it against his hip, the heavy, weighed-down drag, the reality of fitting all of that inside sent an acrobatic troop of nerves tumbling in his belly.
But fuck — maybe it was kinda twisted, maybe he’d got it twisted, but the uncertainty, that buzzing edge of fear, they both just made things hotter.
“I think I’ll like it,” Jesse said, voice just a little unsteady, bobbing on the incoming adrenaline rush.
“Yeah?”
“I mean, I’ve done it before.”
Wyatt’s breath stuttered and stilled. He lifted his head a little, letting Jesse take more of his weight, like he had to get Jesse’s face fully in frame. “You— you’ve been fucked?”
“Like, with my fingers,” Jesse said. “Your fingers. Um, a dildo a couple times. More than a couple, honestly. I, uh, fucked myself with it, I mean. Made myself come handsfree. That was a trip, jeez.”
“A trip.” Wyatt was breathing real carefully suddenly, tight inhale, studied exhale.
“Wyatt?” Jesse asked. “You good?”
It took a second, but Wyatt nodded. “More than.”
Jesse stretched out an arm. Went rooting around under the couch cushions to retrieve his stash and emerged, triumphant, wielding the unassuming little tube. He slapped it into Wyatt’s hand. “Then get to it, big guy.”
“Not even a please,” Wyatt rumbled, but he spun Jesse right on around anyhow, got him belly down on the rug and spread out wide.
Jesse flinched at the first cold hit of lube. Wyatt whispered his apology against the skin of Jesse’s shoulder, a kiss to the small of Jesse’s back.
Then the slow and steady slide of two big, thick fingers.
Wyatt let Jesse take it, no warm up, and Jesse whined a little about it.
Like, the feeling wasn’t unfamiliar. Jesse was a finger-fucking connoisseur these days.
But familiarity didn’t lessen that unforgiving stretch, Jesse’s body trying to clench back against it but clenching around it instead, nowhere left to go.
“Fuck,” Jesse ground out, his voice kinda ground-up too, cracking and hitching from the feeling and the rush of hot anticipation. He scrabbled in the thick pile of the rug, needing to hold onto something. “Wyatt, fuck.”
Wyatt’s other hand settled on the small of Jesse’s back, pressing down. “Stay still for me, sweetheart,” Wyatt murmured. “I know you can.”
Jesse could, in theory. The stretch and the slide made him want to rock his hips, grind his still-soft cock. But he could be good. He’d proved he could be good, and he could keep on proving it, by laying there on his very best behavior while Wyatt prone-bone-finger-fucked him.
So that’s what Jesse did, and that’s what Wyatt did, way more thoroughly than usual, really stretching Jesse out, running a butt-fucking for beginners workshop on Jesse’s desperate ass.
Two fingers then three then — “Fuck, oh fuck.” — then the curl of Wyatt’s tongue tracing Jesse’s hole, where he was stretched out around Wyatt’s fingers.
“Oh, oh, oh,” Jesse said, real intelligently.
Because Wyatt knew exactly what he was doing, just how to twist his fingers, how much and how hard. Knew just where to drag them. Knew exactly how to spam-click that magic button.
Jesse wasn’t being good anymore. His knees were under him now. He was hitching back to meet Wyatt’s fingers, unconsciously at first, but then with real intent when he registered how good it felt, that relentless drag against his prostate.
The pressure was deep, the feel of it building from somewhere just as deep. Jesse had to bite his lip, then bite his fist, to keep a real fucked-up noise inside his throat.
But Wyatt yanked his hand away. “No. I wanna hear you, bud.”
So Wyatt got to hear all of it — the moaning and the whining and every hitching gasp — as he took Jesse the fuck apart.
All the way apart and then some. “Stop,” Jesse gasped out. “You gotta stop.”
Wyatt did. Stopped and pulled back, and that Jesse really didn’t want. He flailed a hand. Got thigh. Grabbed and yanked until Wyatt got with the program and braced forward on top of Jesse, on hands and knees.
The weight was way too much to be comfortable — so much freaking bulk — but Jesse didn’t complain. He liked it in a weird kind of way, being caged in and crushed down by everything Wyatt was.
Because Wyatt was so big.
He made Jesse small just by being him, but not in a way that made Jesse feel small, like diminished or some shit. Small like delicate, and precious and wanted and needed, and safe, and protected. And that shouldn’t have settled the ache in Jesse.
But it did. It did so much.
Wyatt was dripping sweat, fucking drenched in it, his braced arms shiny and glistening, and Jesse was too, and sticky with his own cum, and slicked up between his cheeks with lube and the spill of Wyatt’s precum in the new heavy, grinding press of their bodies.
That should have been disgusting, and maybe it was — fuck, it kinda was — but god, it was so fucking hot that Jesse vibrated with it.
Maybe Wyatt was vibrating a little too, the thrum of it zipping through both of them, because his voice sounded shook up when he whispered, “Fuck, Jess.”
His grip on Jesse’s hip flexed, tightening for a second, and his cock was a heavy weight resting between Jesse’s cheeks when he curved forward to kiss a path down Jesse’s spine. “Gonna fuck you now, bud.”
Jesse’s heart was beating crazy fast. Too fast, probably. “Please.” He turned his head so he could bite his own knuckles, slur out around them. “Want it so bad.”