15. Brendan
Brendan
The moment I said, “We’d better stop talking and start feeling,” his hands shot forward and grabbed both sides of my head as he leaned down and tried to devour my face.
Okay, it was just my mouth; but damn, it felt like he was going to eat me alive.
Before I could even register what was happening, he had me sprawled on my back and was straddling my waist. As his greedy tongue did its thing, the most perfectly round ass I’d ever experienced began grinding into my groin.
Forward and back.
Up and down.
My cock twitched and throbbed with each movement.
He then leaned down and pressed his full weight into me, pinning me between his body and the bed. Our bare chests rubbed together as his grinding shifted to thrusts, his cock finding mine and sliding together through our shorts.
I broke the kiss for a second—just to breathe, not to stop. He read it correctly, the way he read everything, and grinned against my lips before he gripped my head and kissed me harder.
“You’re mine tonight. You hear me?”
“So yours,” I said.
“I’m going to take these off now,” he said, hands at my waistband, and waited—actually waited—until I got out a ragged “God, yes.”
“Good. Don’t even think about getting up.”
I couldn’t move, much less stand.
With a dancer’s impossible flexibility, he shifted backward, gripped my shorts, and yanked as he stood at the foot of the bed. My shorts and undies came away in one smooth motion, leaving my already-slickened cock flopping free against my stomach.
“Jesus, Brendan,” he said as he tossed my pants aside without looking away from my now-naked form.
I shifted, scooting higher on the bed so I was no longer half falling off the end. He grabbed my hips and helped with a not-so-gentle shove. Without warning, he then gripped his own waistband and slid his shorts off.
Two things struck me in that moment.
First, he didn’t wear underwear.
And second, while his cock wasn’t porn-star massive, it was the most perfect, veiny beast I’d ever seen. Something about the richness of his Puerto Rican skin made his dick even more sexy than it otherwise might’ve been.
And fuck me, he was uncut.
“You okay with foreskin?” he asked, reaching down and tugging at his snake’s sweater.
“I . . . uh . . . fuck. It’s kind of, well, a fetish of mine. Like seriously. It might be my favorite thing ever.”
Adrian’s smile reemerged, brighter than ever in my dim bedroom.
“Good, he’s all yours. I promise he grows up when he’s happy.”
I blinked.
His dick already looked happy.
I might need to reassess his average size if it got any bigger.
Then he was crawling, his knees straddling my body, his dick dangling dangerously close to my . . . oh . . . then it smacked into my dick.
He paused.
Then he wiggled his hips so his cock slapped back and forth against mine.
I was already so excited I thought I might burst, but those slaps . . .
“Fuck, Adrian . . .”
“All you have to do is ask,” he said, then winked.
A heartbeat later, all I could see was his hair flopping as his mouth consumed my cock. How, in one motion, without any help from his hand, he managed to dive and take me to the back of his throat was a mystery; but it felt too damn good to think about.
His tongue teased my tender skin as he bobbed up and down, mercilessly sucking the precum off my head.
“Mmm,” he groaned but didn’t look up, his sucking growing intense as I leaked more down his throat.
One hand reached up, slapping into my chest.
The other followed, fingers digging into my hair, kneading my muscles, squeezing and teasing and grasping as he sucked and sucked.
“Adrian, shit, if you keep that . . . I . . . Adrian . . . fuck . . .”
The first shot surprised us both.
I felt him hitch, a quick stutter in his bobbing, but he didn’t stop.
One hand left my chest and gripped my balls, pulling them down.
My cock stiffened beyond itself, and I heard him swallow as he drank me in.
Wave after wave of pleasure flowed out of me.
Still, he didn’t slow.
Only when my dick surrendered and even his hand on my balls couldn’t keep it erect did he sit upright, wipe the residue from his chin, and stare down at me.
“You taste like the sea,” he said simply.
I shook my head against the bed cover and laughed. “What?”
He cocked his head like Mofongo might. “Your cum. It isn’t just salty. It tastes like . . . I don’t know . . . something new. I like it.”
“I have no idea what that means,” I said, still chuckling through gasps for air. “But that was the best blow job I think I’ve ever had. Sorry it was over so fast. It’s been a while. Want me to—?”
“No,” he said, rolling off me to lie beside me. “If you’ll let me, I’d like to sleep next to you tonight. This is all I want.”
I stopped chuckling.
If you’ll let me, I’d like to sleep next to you tonight.
Nobody had said a thing like that to me in longer than I could remember. It was such a simple sentence. He’d delivered it plainly, the way he said everything, without the little hedge people usually put around wanting something.
I lay there and stared at the ceiling and felt, underneath the pleasant wreckage of the last twenty minutes, a dozen emotions battling for supremacy in my mind.
Because here was the thing I was not going to say out loud, not to him and not really to myself: I had walked into Barbacks weeks ago expecting a fun night and a good show, and I’d enjoyed every second of it and kept it, in my head, exactly that size.
Somewhere in the tidy, well-organized back office of my brain I had filed the whole thing the way I did everything—quickly, confidently, into a box small enough that it couldn’t get any bigger than I’d decided to let it get.
Low stakes. Uncomplicated. A bright, easy person I could enjoy from a safe distance and hand back at the end of the night.
And the man in this bed, the one who had just asked to sleep beside me like it was the most natural request in the world, didn’t fit in the box. He was so much larger than the small, safe size I’d tried to keep him.
That should have been a pleasant surprise.
Mostly it was.
But there was a smaller, less-flattering detail tucked in beside the pleasure, and I was honest enough—barely—to notice it was there without being brave enough to take it out and look at it.
Some part of me had wanted this to stay small.
I had come to this—and I was, if nothing else, precise about this—telling myself it would stay light, that a man like Adrian was a bright, easy thing you enjoyed and didn’t build a life around.
Those assumptions had just been proven wrong.
Completely, cleanly wrong. Instead of feeling glad about that, I felt the uncomfortable warmth of a person caught doing something he shouldn’t, caught by no one at all, which was somehow worse.
I was a man who reorganized supply cabinets when I didn’t want to feel things. I recognized the impulse now, the itch to get up, to do something with my hands, to sort this into a category and close the box and move on.
Fighting against every deeply etched impulse in my brain, I refused to move.
I made myself lie still instead, which was not a thing I was good at.
He does not fit in the small box I tried to keep him in, I thought, and left it there.
It was an unfinished thought, because finishing it would have meant asking why I’d wanted a box in the first place, and I was not going to do that tonight—not with his breath going slow beside me—not when the night had been this good.
I’d sort it later.
I sorted everything later.
He scooted closer to me, pressing his overheated, sweaty body into mine. I had yet to answer him, but his hand was already on my chest, fingers playing with my hair. Without moving the rest of my body, I turned my head and kissed his forehead. It was the only part of him I could reach.
I couldn’t see him smile, but I felt it.
And I was sure he felt mine in return.