57. Indy #3
He picks up the book I’ve been pretending to read before bed while I obsess about things I shouldn’t even think about.
“Hemingway?” He grins.
“I didn’t read it in high school.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed and leafs through the pages. “How come? We all had to read this. And you were always so…” His eyes take another long sweep over me. “Thorough.”
I swear to God, the way he says it, it comes off as downright dirty, which means I’m immediately flustered, and I would bet a lung or any other crucial internal organ that he can tell.
“I got seven chapters in, but I just couldn’t do it. It was so goddamn boring. So I read the Cliff’s Notes version and got an A on the test.”
“And now you read it because you yearn for boredom?”
I shake my head. “It’s the only book I didn’t actually read in high school.”
“And it came back to haunt you?”
“I figured I’m older and wiser now, so I might have learned to enjoy it.”
He looks at the bookmark with a smirk. “And have you?”
I sigh. “It’s still just really boring. It keeps putting me to sleep.”
He puts the book down on my nightstand, eyes still fixed on me, then he gets up, walks over to where I’m standing, and leans against the wall next to me.
“You have no idea what a relief it is to hear you say that,” he says.
“Because?”
“I have a weakness for sophisticated men. Ones who really enjoy the classics. Can quote stuff. It gets me really hot when people can quote stuff.”
I swallow hard. The room is suddenly way too warm, and my stomach jolts violently at his proximity.
“It’s a good thing I can’t do that, then,” I say. “And I’m not that sophisticated either. So you’re safe, pretty much.” Safe and way too close for comfort. “Unless you like obscure references to articles from old rowing magazines. I’ve got plenty of those.”
“Ah, shit,” he says in a low, rough voice, leaning closer, his lips hovering only inches away from mine now. “That’s like my kryptonite.”
“Oh.” I exhale. “That’s bad. Because I can tell you all about how the 2k erg has always been a daunting task.”
“Has it?”
I nod. By now, our foreheads are touching.
“It’s a real pain in the ass.”
“Maybe you’re doing it wrong.” He puts his hand on my hip and slides it behind me until he’s grabbing my ass. “If you do it right, it should feel good.”
“Are you still talking about rowing?”
“Is rowing a euphemism? Because in that case, yes.”
He brings his mouth down on mine without waiting for a reply. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer while he pushes me against the wall. His body molds to mine like it was made for me. Like somebody took exact measurements and made him fit against every dip, curve, and bulge.
We shouldn’t do this.
But I couldn’t care less about should and shouldn’t right now.
Instead, I kiss him harder.
His tongue brushes mine. He tastes young and wild and free and makes me feel like it, too.
Like no time has passed since we were kissing just like this in my old boat shed.
Or on the roof of my parents’ house. Like maybe there are still parts of us that are those same two carefree boys with their whole lives in front of them.
A surge of yearning rushes through me.
His fingers move into my hair, and he tugs my head back, pressing his lips down on my neck.
I yelp when he bites the hickey he left there last night, and my cock jerks.
His other hand goes to the front of my pants, and he cups my dick.
I moan into his mouth at the electricity that arcs down my spine at his touch.
I’m dizzy with lust immediately. No slowly easing into it; I just want him. More than anything or anyone in my whole life. It’s the simple truth.
I surrender. For good.
I want him.
I’ve always wanted him.
I will always want him.
I want him forever.
I shove my hand between us until I feel his stiff length sliding into my hand. Fucking hell. I run my fingers up and down, heart jumping every time his cock flexes in his pants.
Nick’s hand stops moving, and his eyes go hazy, half-lidded with desire, lips slightly parted, tongue swiping over his lower lip, leaving it glistening wet.
His eyes meet mine when I pull the waistband of his sweatpants away from his body, then lower until I find the tip of his cock. I raise my hand and drag my tongue over the pad of my thumb before I rub it over the head.
He blows out a shaky breath and looks down between our bodies. At his own hand cupping my balls through the fabric of my pants. My thumb massaging the slit of his dick, spreading the saliva and the drop of precum that pushed out a moment ago.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
“Good?”
His Adam’s apple rolls as he swallows and nods, and I feel more on top of the too-much I’m already feeling. It’s an intoxicating rush that I can make him feel this way.
He rolls his hips against mine, shoving his cock into my hand more forcefully.
I smirk at him.
“Someone’s impatient,” I murmur before I press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He huffs out a laugh and starts to grind against me more insistently. “Do something about it, then, would you?”
He squeezes my shaft, and I let out a moan, and then he’s kissing me again. It’s barely been twelve hours since I slipped out of his bed, but kissing him like this, it might as well have been centuries between then and now. The need for him is stronger than ever.
And he tastes so good. So fucking good. He tastes like Nick. He’s always been my favorite taste.
His hands roam over my body like he’s trying to commit every part of me to memory, and maybe he is.
Maybe last night wasn’t the last time, but tonight might very well be.
I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not very good at resisting him.
Never have been. Even if I know somewhere in the back of my mind that it’ll hurt worse in the end.
The kiss turns even more urgent. We push and pull and fight each other, even though we have the same goal in the end.
I shove him, and we stumble across the floor, mouths still fused together, two hungry, needy entities.
“Want you, Blue. I can’t—” Whatever he says next doesn’t make sense. It’s made up of half-syllables, most of which get lost in our kisses.
We’re clumsy and uncoordinated as we rip each other’s clothes off.
Shirts, pants, underwear, and socks hit the floor, flung into the corners of the room like we’re both trying to get them as far away as possible until I can slide my fingers up his hips to his chest with no distractions on the way.
He takes my face in his hands and deepens the kiss into a desperate, dirty clash of teeth and tongues.
We drop onto the bed, kissing the whole time. I roll us over and sit up, fingers splayed on his chest, thighs straddling his hips, his cock pushing against my crack.
“Blue,” he moans when I lower my head and start to kiss a trail down the side of his neck, going lower with each openmouthed kiss, tweaking his nipples into stiff pebbles, raking over them with my teeth until he’s writhing beneath me.
I slap his hand away when he tries to take my cock into his hand and move lower, covering his torso with kisses, licking his belly button until I make it to my grand prize, jutting up stiff and proud from a neatly trimmed thatch of pubic hair.
I shove his legs farther apart and hold his gaze as I lick a hot, wet path from his balls to the tip of his cock. He throws his head back and a groan rumbles from deep within his chest. I lick him again, and his back arches up off the bed.
I keep licking him, and he keeps writhing beneath me, hands fisting the sheets, body slick with sweat. I inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of sex and Nick, committing it to memory.
I suck my fingers into my mouth and make them wet. He spreads his legs wider, digging his heels into the mattress. I suck him into my mouth and press the pad of my finger against his opening, and he pushes back until I’m knuckle deep inside him. We both exhale, and he lets out a strained laugh.
“Gonna fuck me?” he asks.
I push my finger deeper before I meet his gaze and shake my head.
“I need you inside me.”
His eyes burn with lust. “Then stop teasing me.”
I straddle him and grab the lube from where I stuffed it underneath the side of the mattress a while back. I take his hand and pour some onto his fingers before I lean forward and capture his mouth again. I kiss him while he stretches me open.
“Fuck,” I groan when he holds his dick by the root and rubs the blunt head against my opening.
We both gasp when he breaches me. We spent the previous night fucking each other senseless, so everything is sensitive to the point of too much, and it fits because everything about him has always been too goddamn much.
“Shit,” I rasp when he wraps his fingers around my cock and rubs his thumb over the slit, smearing precum all over the head. My body clenches around him, and he gasps loudly. “Jesus, you’re fucking tight.”