Lucas #2
What about the sale? What about the big-ass decision between us?
“You don’t want this,” he warned.
My hand landed on his hip, fingers digging in through the worn denim, and his breath stuttered as if he’d been gut-punched.
For a second, he didn’t move. Then, his hands were on me, rough and desperate, shoving at my coat, yanking it down my arms, then ripping his own off, layers of clothes ending up on the living room floor.
His mouth crashed into mine, all teeth and hunger, and I groaned into it, my hands flying to his face, thumbs pressing into the stubble on his cheeks.
We stumbled. His back hit the wall by the window with a thud, and I crowded him, my thigh forcing its way between his legs.
His hips jerked forward, and I could feel him—hard, thick, trapped behind his zipper.
My cock ached, straining in my slacks, and I ground against him, the friction making us both gasp.
He scrambled to yank the drapes shut, gripping me as he slammed the door shut and flicked on a lamp. I followed him, stealing kisses.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice raw. “Lucas, we can’t—”
“No talking,” I growled, biting at his bottom lip before soothing it with my tongue.
His hands fisted in my shirt, as if he were torn between pushing me away and dragging me closer.
I won. He yanked me flush to him, his mouth crashing back onto mine, and this time there was no hesitation, no second guessing—just the wet, filthy slide of our tongues and his hips rolling, chasing friction.
I needed more. Needed him.
My fingers flew to the buttons of his plaid shirt, tearing them open, sending one pinging across the floor. He hissed when my palm flattened to his chest, over the dark hair dusting his pecs, I pinched his nipple just hard enough to make him jerk, and he groaned, his head thudding back to the wall.
“Lucas,” he muttered, but his hands were already at my belt, fumbling with the buckle.
I laughed, low and dark, before going to my knees in front of him, awkwardly and not without a painful pull on every muscle I had.
The air left his lungs in a rush. “What the—?”
I didn’t give him time to finish. My hands went to his jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down with a sound that seemed obscenely loud.
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, the head already wet, and my mouth watered.
I wrapped my fingers around the base, stroking slowly, and looked up at him.
His eyes were black with want, his chest heaving. “Lucas,” he warned, but it wasn’t a protest. It was a plea.
I leaned in, breathing him in before dragging my tongue up the underside of his cock, from root to tip. His thighs trembled. His fingers tangled in my hair, not guiding, just holding on.
“Fuck,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “Your mouth—”
I didn’t let him finish that either. I took him in, deep and slow, hollowing my cheeks as I pulled back, my lips stretched around him.
His hips twitched, trying to chase the sensation, but I gripped his ass, holding him still as I worked him over—licking, sucking, taking him to the back of my throat until his breath came in ragged gasps.
“Gonna come,” he groaned, his fingers twisting in my hair. I pulled off with a wet pop, stroking him fast, my thumb smearing the pre-cum beading at his slit. His whole body was strung tight, his muscles trembling, and when I looked up at him, his lips were parted and his eyes glazed.
“Not yet,” I murmured, standing up. His eyes flashed with frustration, but before he could protest, I was kissing him again, and he groaned into my mouth, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me to him.
I could feel his cock, hot and heavy, trapped between us, and I rocked into him, my own arousal a throbbing ache.
We didn’t make it to the bed.
He spun me around, pressing me face-first into the wall, his body covering mine. His breath hitched, my cock trapped, desperate for release, and he unbuttoned, unzipped, then palmed my cock, stroking me hard, and I arched back.
“Need you,” he growled, my teeth grazing his ear. “Need to fuck you.”
I shuddered, my head dropping forward. “Yeah,” I breathed. “Fuck, yes.”
He didn’t waste any time. I kicked off my shoes as he shoved my slacks and boxers down enough to free my cock, and I spat into my palm before wrapping it around myself.
He rummaged for supplies, then instead of standing there, waiting, I leaned over the sofa—his bed—and spread my legs wider as he stretched me with a sure touch.
Then, he pushed in slowly, just the tip, and his breath stuttered out. “Lucas…”
“Relax,” I murmured, twisting to see his expression, gripping his face awkwardly and kissing him. He exhaled shakily and eased in further, inch by inch, until he was seated deep inside me. The heat of him, the way his body blanketed me—it was almost enough to make me lose it right then.
“Move,” I demanded, my voice rough. “Fucking move, Jesse.”
It seemed he didn’t need to be told twice.
He pulled back and snapped his hips forward, driving into me hard. I gasped, but then I was pushing back, meeting him thrust for thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixed with our ragged breaths and the creak of old floorboards.
“Fuck, you feel—” He didn’t even finish. “Lucas…”
“Do it, Jesse!”
My brain short-circuited as he gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks, and I loved it—the idea of seeing them later, of knowing he’d put them there.
Jesse reached down, wrapping his hand around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. I flexed, my back arching as I chased his release. I could feel him getting closer, his body tightening over me, his lips finding the spot just below my ear.
“Want to feel you come on my cock.” he said.
That did it.
I cried out, my body locking up as orgasm tore through me and my cock pulsed in his grip, ropes of cum splattering the sofa. He buried himself deep and came with a groan, his hips stuttering against my ass.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. His forehead rested on my shoulder, my breath coming in sharp gasps. He was still trembling, his own breathing ragged. Slowly, he pulled out, and I hissed at the sensation, but he caught me when my legs threatened to give way and turned me in his arms.
I could feel the way his heart hammered, the way his body still hummed in the afterglow. I held him steady with my hands on his waist, then ran one palm up his back, over the damp skin, the ridges of his spine.
I should’ve felt guilty that I’d taken this. Should’ve been second-guessing, overanalyzing, finding a way to twist this into something I could regret later. But I didn’t.
Because today, now, here in this room, Jesse wasn’t a mistake.
He was a choice.
When the heat between us had burned down, there was silence, and I hated what it let my head do.
“So,” I said, aiming for dry, for light, for anything that wasn’t how exposed I felt right then. “That’s one way to convince me not to sell.”
The words landed wrong. I knew it instantly.
Jesse went still. Completely still.
“The fuck?” he said quietly. Not angry. Worse. Flat.
My chest tightened. “No. Jesse—no. I was joking. Badly. I do that when I’m—”
“No,” he snapped, then pulled on his clothes, already moving away from me, away from the sofa, away from whatever we’d just done.
Control snapped back into place like it always did, and all I could do was watch.
“You’re an asshole,” he snarled, and I wish I knew how to take those words back, but we weren’t on the same page.
I still wanted to sell, but he would never agree, and I’d thrown the equivalent of a bomb between us.
I heard the front door slam, winced, and headed up to the bathroom to shower.
“Way to blur the lines,” I muttered to my stupid reflection. Best sex ever, with a man who made me feel all the wrong things. And all the right things.
Way to fuck up.