Chapter 4. Chris #4
He’s thick, the head dark and slick, his cock curving up toward his stomach. The sight of him—hard and huge and mine to touch—makes my own cock twitch embarrassingly.
Mads wraps one hand around the base of his cock, his grip firm, and catches my chin with the other. He doesn’t force me closer. He only tilts my face up, his thumb brushing over my lower lip, and I open for him without being asked.
His thumb slides inside, and I suck it lightly, watching his eyes go darker as his breath catches. It’s such a small thing, but somehow it feels obscene. Intimate.
When he pulls his thumb out, I let my tongue slip out for him and wait.
His gaze drops to my mouth again.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Then, like he can’t wait any longer, he drags the head of his cock across my mouth.
The slick heat of him smears over my lips and tongue, and I open wider when he nudges against me, waiting for him to give us both what we want.
Finally, he pushes forward, the head of his cock sliding inside, and the taste of him pulls a groan out of my chest. The sound vibrates against his skin, and his hand tightens in my hair.
I take him deeper in one motion, my lips stretching around his girth, and his cock hits the back of my throat before he’s ready for it. He makes another sound—half gasp, half groan—and his hips jerk forward.
I don’t choke. I know how to do this. I relax my throat, my nose pressing against the short, coarse hair at the base of his cock, and his whole body goes rigid.
“Holy fuck,” he breathes.
I pull back until only the head is in my mouth, then take him deep again, setting a rhythm that has his thighs tremble beneath my hands. My tongue drags along the underside of his cock on every downstroke, and the taste of him—salt and skin—fills my mouth until it’s all I can think about.
After a few minutes, Mads is breathing hard, both hands buried in my hair, but he still isn’t thrusting. He holds himself almost perfectly still, his hips trembling with the effort of it, like he’s afraid one wrong move will make him come too soon.
His control is fucking hot.
I bob my head faster, taking him deeper on every stroke, and he makes a sound I’ve never heard from him before. Raw. Desperate. Almost pained. His fingers tighten in my hair hard enough to sting, and heat shoots straight through me.
I do it again, slow, letting my throat open for him, and his cock pulses against my tongue.
That’s when his control finally cracks.
His hips give one hard, involuntary thrust, shoving him deeper than before, and he gasps, his voice breaking.
“Stop—Chris—fuck, I’m too close—”
I pull off him completely, my lips dragging along his length until he slips from my mouth. He’s panting, his chest heaving, hands shaking, his cock throbbing in the cool air.
I’ve barely started, and he’s already falling apart.
The knowledge goes straight to my ego, and I’m not proud of it, but fuck it, I’m allowed. Mads Holm, the most composed man I’ve ever met, reduced to a trembling, cursing mess by my mouth. I want to frame this moment and hang it on my wall.
He reaches for me then, pulling me up by my shoulders. His grip is gentle despite the urgency, and the contrast twists in my chest. One second I’m on my knees, and the next I’m back on the bed, in his arms, his mouth crushing against mine.
The kiss is messy and hungry, his tongue in my mouth, and I know he can taste himself on me—the salt of his precum, the faint musk of his skin.
He groans against my lips and pulls the robe off me in one quick motion. The fabric slides down my arms and pools on the carpet, and suddenly I’m naked in front of him, the cool air raising goosebumps across my skin.
Mads leans back and looks at me.
His gaze travels down my body—my chest, my stomach, my cock hard and leaking against my thigh—and the expression on his face is something I’ll probably think about on my deathbed. Hungry. Reverent, almost. Like he can’t believe I’m letting him see me like this.
“Get on the bed,” he says, his voice wrecked. “Hands and knees.”
The command sends a shiver through me.
I climb onto the mattress and get on all fours, facing the headboard. The position leaves me exposed in a way that makes my face burn, but the heat of it goes straight to my cock.
Behind me, I hear him moving—the rustle of fabric, the clink of his belt buckle—and I glance over my shoulder.
Mads has picked up his jeans from the floor and is pulling something out of the back pocket.
A small bottle of lube.
A foil strip of condoms.
My breath catches.
I didn’t know if he’d be up for this. I didn’t know if, after last night, he’d want to go further. Hand jobs are one thing. This is different. This is him thinking about it, planning for it, bringing supplies to my room like there was a chance we’d end up here and he wanted to be ready.
Heat blooms low in my stomach.
Mads catches me staring and holds my gaze. For a second, he looks almost shy.
“Hope that’s okay,” he says.
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
He tosses the lube and condoms onto the bedspread next to me, then climbs onto the mattress behind me. The bed dips under his weight. His hands settle on my ass before he spreads me open.
Cool air hits my hole, and my body goes tight with anticipation.
I brace myself for his fingers.
What I get is his tongue.
Holy shit.
It’s warm, wet, and so unexpected that I cry out and drop my forehead to the mattress. My whole body jerks, my cock throbbing between my legs.
I twist around to look at him.
Mads is kneeling behind me with his face between my asscheeks, and the expression on him is almost mesmerized. Like he meant to try this and somehow got caught off guard by how much he likes it.
Then he makes a sound. Quiet, hungry, completely unlike him.
“Is this okay?” he asks, pulling back after a moment. His voice is rough.
“Yes,” I breathe. “God, yes.”
He goes back to it, slower now. His tongue traces the rim of my hole in tight circles, and the slick heat of it makes my legs shake.
He licks me like he’s learning me, figuring out what makes my breath catch, what makes my hips push back, what makes me lose the thread of every coherent thought I’ve ever had.
I’m hard and leaking onto the sheets beneath me, my cock aching, and the combination of his mouth on my ass and the visual of Mads Holm—Mads fucking Holm—eating me out like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever done is too much.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I gasp, my voice breaking.
There’s a pause.
Then, muffled against my skin, he says, “I googled it. Today.”
I laugh, a choked, breathless sound, and drop my forehead to the mattress again. “You what?”
“Googled it,” he says, and I can hear the embarrassed smile in his voice. “How to do a rim job. The internet has guides.”
The mental image of Mads Holm sitting in the hotel bar with his phone in his hand, googling "How to do a rim job" while pretending to watch hockey, is so fucking endearing and ridiculous I could die.
Then his tongue drags over my hole again, and I snap back to reality with another moan.
He eats me out until I lose track of time.
Torturous, thorough, his tongue working me open with a patience that makes me insane.
His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider, and the wet sounds of his mouth on me are loud and obscene in the quiet room.
I’m writhing beneath him, my hips pushing back against his face, and the pleasure keeps building in slow, relentless waves until I’m shaking with it.
Then I hear the cap of the lube bottle snap open.
Cold liquid hits my hole, and I hiss at the sensation. Mads’s finger replaces his tongue, circling my rim, slick now, and the first press of it makes my breath catch.
“Did you google this too?” I ask, my voice ragged.
A pause.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”
I laugh, helpless and stupidly fond. He’s kneeling behind me, his finger poised at my entrance, his expression focused in that painfully Mads way, like he’s one wrong move away from asking if there’s a manual.
“But,” he adds, careful now, “I don’t want to hurt you. So maybe you could show me how it’s done?”
The request is so perfectly him—practical, considerate, a little awkward—that I can’t hold back my smile.
I reach behind myself and find his wrist. His skin is warm under my fingers, his pulse jumping against my thumb.
“Put it in,” I say, pressing his finger against my hole. “Slow. One finger at a time. Curl it a little once you’re inside.”
He nods, his eyes on mine.
I let go of his wrist, and he pushes in.
I barely feel the stretch, but Mads freezes anyway.
“Okay?” he asks, instantly worried.
“Yes,” I say. “Keep going.”
He pushes deeper, his finger sliding into me to the second knuckle. Then he curls it, and on the first try, he finds the spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
“Fuck,” I pant.
His eyes go wide. “Was that—?”
“Yes,” I say. “That was it.”
He does it again. His finger curls inside me, pressing against my prostate, and pleasure zips up my spine so fast I see stars. My hips push back against his hand, chasing more.
“Another,” I say, my voice rough.
He adds a second finger, working me open slowly, his free hand stroking my thigh like he’s trying to soothe me through it. The stretch burns at first, then eases into pleasure, and by the time he has three fingers inside me, I’m writhing and begging without any dignity left to save.
“Please,” I say, my forehead pressed to the mattress. My voice sounds broken even to me. “Mads, please, I need you inside me.”
My cock pulses, still leaking onto the sheets, and I’m so hard it hurts.
Mads leans over me, his chest pressing against my back, and his mouth finds my ear.
“A little more,” he whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”