42. My Only One #2
He doesn’t use any of the power I know he has, though.
Far too sweet. Far too respectful. At least until I get him into the bathroom.
The second I click the lock on the door, he spins me around, pushes my back against it, and his hands slide over my hips, beneath my underwear, slipping it to the floor.
My hard cock thrusts out greedily to meet him, and Archer… he presses his body against mine.
The cold wood of the door hits my back, the hot masculinity of him greets my front.
He’s completely dressed. Beautifully dressed in pressed trousers, another one of these soft jumpers that I can’t help but think he has a whole wardrobe full of, probably all hung in order of colour.
I want to get in there and mess it all up, mess him all up.
But I get the delicious, heady sense that he’s very much the one in charge here.
Particularly when his hot hand wraps firm around my dick, and he begins to stroke me.
Powerless. That’s me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I sink my hands into the yielding fabric of his sweater, not even trying for his cock right now, because I know exactly what would happen. And I’m enjoying the moment. Because I know he wants me to. He wants me to be happy. To relax with him.
Archer has skills of every kind imaginable, and cock-work should go right at the top of his resume. His pressure is perfect, the way he brings an arm around my shoulders and pulls me even closer. Fuck, the way I want to come all over him again.
I truly don’t know how much of his skill is natural or learned, how much of it is just that he wants me, or how much of it is this incredible… sex magic.
The thought of that, combined with what his hand is doing, makes mine slide lower, down to his belt. I scoop my fingers over the edge, and while he doesn’t stop me, he does pause me when he whispers, “I want to fuck you.”
Oh, god. I mean, yes. Absolutely, yes please, but… “Is this something we need a conversation about, or… Because I haven’t been with anyone else for so long, and…”
“And?” he rasps between urgent kisses that, in tandem with his hand, are stealing almost all my thoughts.
“And… Oh, god…” He presses down on my slit, tightening his fingers. His other hand slides down to my ass, and he wrenches me in. “I can. Like this. Just… Like this. Um… if you want to…”
“I want to,” he growls against my mouth. “I want nothing more than to fuck you raw until you’re screaming my name.”
Okay. That’s an answer. That’s a very good answer. How best to say, turn me around and take me right here against the door?
But he does not. He steps away, leaving me gasping, leans into the shower and slams the water on. That’s fair. Dead demon ghost thing. Probably bits of it in my hair. Not the best and most sexy.
But it’s also a breathtaking shame.
But then it’s also the opportunity I’ve been needing.
I have no condoms in the bathroom cabinet, of course not. I don’t exactly make a habit of bringing men to my shower. There has to be something in here I can use as lube, though.
I scan the half-empty bottles. Moisturiser?
Probably not. Almond oil? What if he has a nut allergy?
Surely he would have mentioned it. But if he doesn’t know, what a way to find out…
I shove a few bottles aside then come across a little tub.
One hundred percent pure coconut oil. That will do nicely.
Hoping it’s not too expensive, I pluck it out of the cabinet, then jump up and almost straight into him.
He glances down at it, raises one eyebrow.
“Apparently it’s good for taking make-up off…” I mumble.
He laughs, plucking it out of my hand and placing it on the shower caddy. “You know, I heard beds are a whole thing.” His hand is immediately back on my cock, his lips on mine, but this time, he’s not getting away with his clothes on.
“They’re overrated. Trust me.” I get to work on his belt buckle, loosening, pulling, while the hot mist of the shower swirls around us.
His pants are on the floor, a beautiful, crumpled mess.
I rip his sweater off and drop it on the pile.
Then I almost slip over when I try my best to nonchalantly step into the wet bathtub like I’m not absolutely gagging for this.
God, it’s small. It’s too ridiculous. What was I even thinking?
But Archer doesn’t seem to mind. He steadies me, steps in close, then he’s against me, hot water cascading over us, gorgeous in the cold night, gorgeous against the warmth of him, holding me, kissing me… turning me around?
Okay, yes. Yes, let’s do that. But…
Pop goes the cap on a shampoo bottle.
I reach for the coconut oil in a small panic. Surely he’s not planning to go in with shampoo. It’s slippery but just seems super soapy and—
Archer’s hands slide into my hair and I melt. Utterly melt. He’s not uncertain in his movements. He goes right in for the massage, and I’m putty. Putty, but also… I don’t know. What do you call this?
I’m so happy to let this man fuck me right here and straight away, but this is some other kind of vulnerable.
Some beautiful and soft vulnerable. Some sweetness that runs fingers hot and firm up behind my ears, that presses down at the base of my neck, that runs little circles in places I didn’t realise could make me ache this way.
Ache heavily, deep in the centre of my heart.
He takes deft, careful, and confident hands to my shoulders, works at the knots of tension there.
He takes his time and loosens years of stress while the hot water and the steam and the closeness of him all work their own magic.
My head falls back on his chest, moans of pleasure pouring out of me, but not at all the sort I’d expected when we first walked in here.
He chuckles, the rise of his big chest so good and solid against me. “Does that feel nice?”
“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.” His kiss is amazing too, on my cheek as he raises me up gently to let the water cleanse my hair, running his fingers through it, his hands moving over my body in a way that feels too beautiful, too caring.
That makes me reach up for him, sink my fingers into his hair as I turn to face him.
“I want you,” I whisper. “Not just… Not just physical, you know? I want you.”
“I know.” His hand wraps my jaw. He kisses me—and why does it feel like this? It feels too passionate. Too final. Like he’s pouring something into this, some sadness and some longing that isn’t the fast and sexy thing I’d planned on.
It is still sexy. But it’s some kind of elevated sexy—some kind of unrequited feeling thing that is totally requited.
Or maybe it’s just like this for men like us.
Men who thought they’d never find anyone.
Men who have been alone for so long, who finally found the one person who can understand them. The person they’re so scared to…
My heart clenches.
I know exactly what it is.
It’s this precarious life, these constant steps backwards, constant loss, always playing catch up.
He feels it as strongly as I do. The fear that it will all be taken away. That if we don’t throw ourselves into this wholly, completely, it might be gone tomorrow.
All while knowing that… we can’t.
Knowing that the same things holding us back from the start are still there. And will always be there. That this is too, too fleeting.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, pull him against me, as if I could hold him forever if I just tried hard enough.
I don’t even know why or what makes me say it, but I hear myself promise him, “I’m staying with you, okay?
I’m not letting anything come between us. It’s just going to be us, together.”
It’s not because I can control any of it. Not because it’s real. It’s just because I want it. I want it more than anything. A normal life. I just want him.
His lips shake against mine. His head dips, and I pull back to look at him. I get one glimpse of the tears on his cheeks, his eyes pressed tight, then he reaches past me and slams the water off.
For one horrifying second, I think I’ve fucked this. I’ve upset him, and it’s over.
But he snatches up the coconut oil, takes my hand and leads me to the door, throwing it open. Then he grabs me. He picks me up, hands curved beneath my ass, kissing me, stumbling backwards to my bedroom.
The flat is so small it’s barely two steps across the hallway and I’m being thrown down on my bed, the door kicked closed behind me. I’m soaking wet. He’s soaking wet, and I couldn’t care less. He’s on top of me, dripping, kissing me. And I want him so badly.
I shuffle down beneath him, use my knees to push him over the top of me, then his dick is deep in my mouth, right where it belongs. A deep groan falls from him, so satisfying, but not half as satisfying and entrancing as the sensation of my mouth on his cock because, like magic, I can feel it too.
It’s weirdly like giving myself a blow job, except with all the pleasure of sharing sex with Archer.
All the gorgeous unpredictability of not having known how much he would really like being on top of me.
The way he reacts to my fingers digging into his ass and gives me exactly what I want, thrusting deeper into my mouth.
I try to let him know how much I love that, how much I want it, by making sex noises that I hope to fuck are turning him on, but it’s not easy.
He thrusts harder, faster, fisting my hair, and I can barely make a proper sound with his cock fucking down my throat.
I wrench him in, begging him with my fingers, more, more, because while I love being throat-fucked by him, I also do feel like I’m throat-fucking him, and this is insane. It’s too good.
I reach a tentative hand down for my dick, shuddering when I make contact. It’s more again, and I’m half expecting Archer to say no to me, tell me to wait.