13. Ben #2
He looks up and sucks harder.
I come with my fingers twisted in his hair. The first pulse shoots across his tongue, and he keeps his mouth sealed around me. My cock jerks again and again while he swallows. His hand stays firm against my stomach, holding me down through every helpless thrust.
By the time he lifts his head, my whole body feels loose. He licks the last drop from the slit and watches my face while he does it.
“Still curious,” he says.
I pull him up and kiss him.
I taste myself on his tongue and kiss him harder, licking into his mouth until he groans and drops his full weight over me.
His cock is trapped between our stomachs, still rigid and leaking. It presses into my skin with every shift of his hips.
I roll him onto his back.
Fraser lands against the couch cushions with his hair wild and his lips swollen. Ink runs from his neck to his chest, down his ribs, and over his thigh. I’ve already had my mouth on most of it. I still want more.
I kiss the mark I left on his neck and move lower. My lips follow the black lines across his chest. He shivers when I suck one nipple, then makes a rough sound when I bite the other. His hands slide over my shoulders without trying to direct me.
The muscles in his stomach jump under my tongue. I trace the tattoo along his ribs, taking my time where it curves over bone. His skin tastes like sweat now. The scent of him gets stronger as I move down, warm and male and close enough to make my cock twitch even after I came.
Fraser’s thighs open around my shoulders.
His cock lies hard against his stomach. The head is dark and wet, precum shining at the slit. I take it in my hand. It feels familiar there. Heavy, smooth, hot enough to pulse against my palm.
My mouth is another matter.
The need to know has been sitting under everything since Arizona, even when I stopped myself from going to my knees. I want his taste on my tongue and the weight of his cock in my mouth.
I hold him in my hand for another second before moving.
Fraser’s fingers brush the side of my head. “You can use your hands.”
The offer gives me a clean way out. I lower my mouth instead.
I lick the head.
Salt hits my tongue first, followed by a faint bitterness. His cock jerks in my hand. A fresh bead of precum pushes from the slit, and I circle it with the tip of my tongue before closing my lips around him.
The weight surprises me, along with the stretch at the corners of my mouth. I take too much on the first try, gag, and pull back fast enough for my teeth to scrape him.
Fraser hisses.
“Shit.”
“Little less enthusiasm, Saint Pope.” The joke comes out under a moan. His hand cups the back of my neck and rubs once, then drops to the cushion.
I start again.
This time I keep one hand tight around the base and take only the head. My tongue presses underneath while I suck. Fraser’s hips twitch, but he keeps them down. The sound above me is low and wrecked enough to push embarrassment out of the way.
I work lower by degrees. My jaw aches, and I can’t take him the way he took me. I use my fist on the rest, twisting my grip while I suck the top half of his cock.
“Yeah,” Fraser says. His fingers dig into the cushion. “Like that.”
I do it again. The next sound out of him has no words in it.
His cock thickens and pulses against my tongue. Mine is getting hard again where it rests against the couch. I press it into the cushion and take Fraser a little deeper.
The head bumps the back of my tongue. I breathe through my nose and hold him there for one second, then pull off with enough suction to make his stomach clench.
His hand finally lands in my hair. He doesn’t push me down. His fingers tighten every time I swirl my tongue over the slit, so I suck harder when they pull.
Fraser starts fucking my fist, his hips getting rougher with every thrust. I keep my lips around the head and match his pace, drawing hard while his breathing breaks apart above me.
His fingers knot in my hair. “Ben. Fuck, I’m going to come.”
The thought of tasting it makes my tongue press harder for one more stroke. His cock starts to pulse, and my nerve breaks. I pull off.
My fist doesn’t stop. I tighten my grip and stroke him hard, watching the head swell and darken. Fraser arches against the couch. The first streak of come shoots over my knuckles and lands on his stomach.
He curses and comes again. Hot pulses spill across my hand and the ink near his ribs while I keep working him through it. His thighs shake against my shoulders. I slow only when his cock softens in my grip and he pushes weakly at my wrist.
I sit back between his legs, breathing hard. Come shines over my fingers. My lips feel swollen, and the taste of his precum is still on my tongue.
Fraser opens his eyes. “For a straight guy, you’re very determined.”
I start to reach for his discarded shirt. “You’re still talking?”
He catches my wrist. “I was complimenting you.”
“Work on it.”
His gaze drops to the mess across my fingers. He brings my palm to his mouth and licks a slow stripe across the base of my thumb.
My half-hard cock jumps.
“Jesus Christ.”
The grin he gives me is lazy and filthy. He takes his shirt from under my knee, wipes off his stomach, then tosses the damp fabric toward the floor.
We end up sprawled against opposite corners of the couch, both naked and trying to breathe normally. My calf is trapped under one of his thighs, and I leave it there.
Silence was easier in Arizona because I left before it had time to become anything. Here, Fraser’s warm leg is still over mine while his come dries between two of my knuckles.
He reaches for the remote and turns on the television.
A hockey game appears. Third period, less than nine minutes left, one-goal lead. Fraser puts the volume low and settles deeper into the cushions.
“I didn’t think you’d come over,” he says.
“Fuck off. It was a dare.”
His mouth tilts. “Maybe.”
The quiet returns, but the game gives us somewhere else to look. My clothes are right there. Putting them on and going home would keep this from becoming anything more than sex.
“I should probably head out.”
Fraser keeps his eyes on the television. “The game’s almost over. At least stay for that.”
Right. Last time I ran, gave him half an explanation later, then spent the next few weeks alternating between wanting him and yelling at him. Now my actual dick is hanging out in his living room while I announce my departure before the sweat is dry.
I reach toward my jeans.
Fraser moves his leg off mine. “Or don’t. Whatever. It’s your life.”
He says it to the television. His hand closes around the remote, thumb pressing hard into the buttons without changing the channel.
I leave the jeans on the floor and pull the throw blanket off the back of the couch instead. “I’m chilly. Move over.”
Fraser looks at me. “Your clothes are right there.”
“Your apartment has terrible heat.”
His gaze drops to the blanket over my lap. “You’re naked.”
“Hard to miss.”
I spread the blanket over my lap and settle back into the couch. After a second, Fraser pulls the other half over his legs.
The final nine minutes take almost twenty. Neither of us talks when the losing team pulls its goalie. Fraser’s bare thigh stays warm against mine under the blanket.
When the horn sounds, I’m still there.