Chapter 3. Mads #3
That small touch wrecks whatever restraint I have left. I lean closer, chasing more of him, and the narrow bunk leaves us tangled together—his knee between mine, my hips pressed to his.
That’s when I feel him, hard against my thigh, and the realization hits me like a shot of tequila.
Chris Rodriguez is hard. For me. After one kiss.
I rock my hips, and he gasps into my mouth, ragged, shocked, like he can’t believe this is happening.
I can’t either.
But my body doesn’t care. My cock is hard enough to hurt, trapped beneath my shorts. I grind again, slower this time, and he groans, his head falling back against the wall.
“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice rough.
I kiss his jaw, his throat. His pulse hammers against my lips, and I bite the spot just below his ear. He shudders and curses under his breath.
I take that as a cue to pause, to make sure he’s all right, but when I pull back, Rodriguez lets out a small, involuntary sound of protest.
I laugh, breathless, my heart going wild.
“How was the kiss?” he asks, his voice wrecked, half a laugh in it, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear me say it.
“Well, I’m definitely not straight,” I say, my breath harsh.
He grins. His hand slides down my stomach, over the waistband of my shorts, and closes around my cock through the fabric. I curse, the word torn out of me, my hips jerking against his hand.
“Fuck—”
He squeezes, his palm pressing against the length of me, and I groan, burying my face in his neck. I mirror him, sliding my hand down to touch him through two layers of fabric, but it’s not enough.
It’s not fucking enough.
Like he hears the thought, Rodriguez’s hand moves from my cock to the waistband of my shorts. His fingers hook under the elastic, but then he hesitates.
“Can I?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” I say.
He pushes my shorts down, just enough, and my cock springs free, hard, aching. The cold air hits it, and I curse.
Rodriguez goes still.
For a second, he only stares. The moonlight catches the curve of me, the length, and his eyes go wide in the dim light, his mouth slightly open.
“Jesus,” he says, his voice thick.
I flush. I know what he’s seeing. I’m not small. I’ve known that since juniors, when I started winning stupid locker-room dick-measuring contests no one ever admitted we were having. But the way Rodriguez is looking at me—like he can’t quite believe it’s real—makes the heat crawl up my neck.
His hand wraps around me, finally skin on skin, and I gasp. His palm is warm, his grip firm, and he strokes once, from base to tip, making my whole body shudder.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
He does it again, and I drop my forehead to his shoulder, my breath catching. His thumb slides over the head, smearing the wetness there, and I groan, my hips pushing into his hand.
Holy fucking shit. He’s way too good at this, and the part of my brain that’s supposed to be processing the fact that this is happening—that Christopher Rodriguez has his hand on my dick and I’m letting him—has gone completely offline.
I should be thinking something profound. By any reasonable standard, this is a life-altering moment. First time touching a man. First time being touched by one.
Instead, all I can think is: more.
I want more.
“Fuck,” I hiss, my hips pushing into his grip. “Chris—”
“I’ve got you,” he says.
He lets go just long enough to spit into his palm, then wraps his hand back around me, slick and hot, and I almost lose it right there.
His gaze drops again, fixed on what he’s doing to me.
The moonlight catches his face as his thumb circles the head again, slower this time, and the drag of it makes me shudder. I watch him watching me, and the sight is so fucking hot it tightens my stomach.
I want to touch him back.
I need to.
My hand slides under the hoodie he’s wearing—my hoodie—and finds the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Let me,” I say.
He nods, breathing quick, and I push his sweatpants and boxer shorts down over his hips. His cock springs free, hard and straining, and I wrap my hand around him.
He’s leaner than me, not quite as thick, but the weight of him is solid in my palm, hot, velvety, slick at the tip. The need punches through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Mads—”
I stroke him once, slow, feeling the way his body tenses under my hand. Then I pull back, spit into my palm, and wrap my hand around him again, copying him without thinking.
Rodriguez makes a wrecked sound in my ear. His hips jerk, his hand tightens on my cock, and the feedback loop of it—him touching me, me touching him, both of us groaning—fucks me up more than I know how to handle.
His hand moves faster on me, and I match him, our rhythm falling together like we’ve done this before. His breathing is loud in the silence of the room, and mine isn’t any better, both of us panting into the narrow space between us.
“Jesus Christ,” Rodriguez says, his voice breaking, and I look at him.
His lips are parted, his eyes half-closed. The moonlight catches the sweat on his throat despite the cold, and I want to put my mouth there again.
So I do.
I kiss his jaw, his neck, the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers against my lips. He groans, tilting his head back to give me room, and his hand tightens on my cock. The rhythm stutters for a second, and I gasp against his skin.
“God,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good—”
“Don’t stop,” I say. “Please, don’t stop.”
It sounds like a plea because it is one.
Rodriguez lets out something close to a chuckle and changes his grip. His hand slides lower, then back up, firmer this time, his thumb catching just under the head on the upstroke, right where I’m so sensitive I nearly come off the mattress.
“Fuck,” I choke out, my fingers tightening around him.
“That?” he asks, breathless.
I can’t answer. I just nod, and he does it again, slower this time, watching my face like he wants to memorize what it does to me.
Our hands work between us, stroking, gripping, the slick sounds of it obscene in the tiny compartment.
The bunk creaks beneath us, the metal frame rattling against the wall every time one of us shifts.
I should care about that. I don’t. Let the whole train hear us.
Let Roman and Sam and Coach Toledo wake up and figure out exactly what’s happening in compartment eleven.
I couldn’t give less of a fuck right now.
Hell, maybe then they’ll finally realize we’re fucking locked in here.
The thought should be funny. It is, somewhere at the back of my mind, but Rodriguez’s mouth is on mine again and his hand is moving like he’s figured out exactly how to undo me, so the laugh never makes it out.