13. Sullivan
Chapter Thirteen
SULLIVAN
Ican’t remember a time where my thoughts were so all over the place it was impossible to focus on a single one.
There’s the immediate—oh shit he’s so tight, goddamn this feels like nothing else.
There’s please don’t touch me, but also why won’t I let him touch me?
There’s I hope Chelsea never finds out about this, but also why don’t I care if she does?
There’s the sounds Knight’s making, muffled too much, and I want to demand he be louder and make more of them. There are the words he’s not saying and all the things I’m not saying.
And finally, there’s the imperative to move.
When I fuck Chelsea, I move fast and quick and hard. She’s athletic and enthusiastic, cracking a hand across my ass like I’m a horse she wants to pick up the pace, arranging us to make sure I’m rubbing her clit and hitting her g-spot just right.
But something about watching my cock getting slowly swallowed by Knight’s bright red, over-stretched hole is hypnotizing.
He has the most perfect ass I can imagine.
I’m actually jealous of how good his ass is.
It’s no secret he comes from a line of elite athletes—he’s a goddamn legacy—and it shows in every tight muscle, every sharply defined curve of his fit, healthy body and his ability to push himself to take my cock, which is in no way small.
There’s this one intrusive thought I struggle with as I slide minutely back and forth, watching his hole suck and swallow me, and that’s the way a similar act of penetration looks with Adrian.
More than once—and especially this summer—my stomach turned when he forced me to watch him wrap his mouth around me.
Where, in the moments I could no longer meet his eyes, I watched his thin, pale lips stretch around my cock.
It too often made my stomach turn. It made him look disgusting and pathetic and perverse, and it made me feel like I was all those things too.
On that thought, I shove in deeper, eliciting a low noise from Knight effective enough to knock the unwanted images away because the sight of myself in him is as powerful as it is hot.
Filthy in a way that makes me even harder, makes my balls even fuller and warmer against my core.
The condom does nothing to disguise how hot he is inside.
Feverishly hot. My hands move in circles over his hips, rocking him slightly to help him fuck me back.
I’m dangerously close to coming after only a few minutes.
It makes sense. I’ve been horny for him since I got here.
Blew him, ate his food, and that goddamn kiss against the wall was crazy good.
I’m a huge fan of kissing this star quarterback and playing with all the ways he’s so fucking repressed.
He’s a greedy kisser, and he’s also very easily overwhelmed, and the combination of that is erotic as fuck to me.
Everything about him is a fucking turn-on, and it’s as annoying as it is satisfying because I wound up here—now—my cock tunneling into his ass with ruthless care and an unrelenting but even pace.
He wriggles, moving to hold himself up on his hands, his head dropped between his shoulders, breath heavy and loud, short grunts bursting from deep in his gut whenever my hips connect with his ass.
It’s not that I don’t want him to touch me or like I can’t handle it or something. It’s more that I’m not sure what I’ll do if he does. I’m worried more than anything that it’ll break my already tenuous focus.
“You good?” I ask as I withdraw to give him another slow, straightforward thrust.
“Good,” he huffs. “It’s good.”
Good, I think. Good. It’s a normal thing to say, I guess.
It answers the question I asked directly.
But do I want this to be good for him? It’s a first for both of us, granted.
I’ve never fucked a guy, and I don’t think he’s ever fucked, period.
And it is good for me. But good doesn’t seem good enough.
Moving my dick in and out of his hole will get me off, sure—he’s tight, he’s hot, he feels amazing, and he looks even better bent over and taking me, but…
It’s not good enough.
I bend forward, placing my arms and hands outside his and pressing my mouth to the side of his neck.
His head turns as I cover his back, and it’s enough to take his mouth with mine.
We share a series of sloppy, sucking lip kisses.
Grunts from him and groans from me erupt with this intensification of our contact.
My cock is now settled deep inside him, and my hips roll to keep myself there.
Fuck me, that feels better.
“Mmm…fuck…” he moans between kisses.
“Better?”
“Fuck yes. Shit. So deep.”
“Such a champ. Taking me like this.”
“Mmhm…” he murmurs, his mouth still vaguely moving against mine.
“Feels so fucking good,” I assure him.
“Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Barely hanging on here.”
“Can I come like this?”
I don’t know what he’s asking. Whether it’s for permission or about whether it’s generally possible, so I answer him with one of my usual questions, but in this case, I’m not trying to be evasive. “I don’t know. Can you?”
“I don’t know.”
I kiss him again, this time managing to slip him about a second’s worth of tongue as I grind inside him. “I’ll make sure you do. You still hard?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding vigorously. “Yeah.”
“Let’s turn you over, then.”
“Mm…no, don’t go.” It’s a pathetic line, and for the first time, it resonates how desperate he is for this.
How much he needs it, and there’s even a glimmer of what it means to him.
He wants the experience. The full and complete memory of what it is to have sex.
Which is exactly why I need him on his back now with his legs in the air and his cock between our abs.
I sit back, pull out, and shove his hip to the side.
He moves easily like he isn’t two-hundred and twenty pounds of muscle that should be as sturdy as a concrete slab.
Now, on his back with his cock flat against his eight pack, I get a look at his face.
He’s both pale and flushed. His hair is damp, and he’s got this glazed, fucked out look as he stares at me that I’ve never seen on a person before.
He licks his lips, not like he’s trying to be sexy but more like he’s not loving how perceived he is, adorable freckles and all.
I don’t waste time. I crowd him again, pushing my body between his legs and coming in for a deeper, longer kiss.
He grabs at my head and I allow it, pressing one hand over his to show him he’s okay to touch me here.
It makes his kiss more aggressive. Our tongues fuck each other in long thrusts and rolling waves.
Without thought, I’ve got my other hand behind his knee, and I’m hiking it up, pushing it toward his shoulder so I can get back inside him.
I slide in without any resistance, and he chokes back a groan.
Everything about this new angle is more stimulating.
His chest rising and rubbing against mine.
The feel of his hard cock between our stomachs.
The wrecked look on his face. I pull back to breathe and find the best angle, which takes a few experimental thrusts, and when he gasps, “Fuck, oh fuck,” I feel it, too.
This delicious closeness, the way my cock drags along the more sensitive side of his hole.
I also feel the need to seal my mouth to his and fuck the rest of myself into him for the duration. “Kiss me.”
He has to lift his head and use his magnificent abs to crunch up, maintaining his grip on my hair and head, but he does it. We kiss furiously as I use every lower body muscle I have any control over to go deeper and harder, to keep his dick smashed between us.
A surge of wild lust and an urgent desire to come has me picking up the pace. I lose some control as I move faster and rougher. He’s using his body, too. His hips rising to take me and fuck back against me, and it feels like we’re suddenly in this together.
His kiss breaks, but his mouth remains on mine as he gasps.
I feel him come. I feel everything, the spasm of his cock, the resulting jerky ejaculation spilling hot cum between us.
The sounds he makes, the way they vibrate my lips, and the way his ass clenches in strong flutters around my moving dick break through my ability to resist what’s been building since I first popped through his rim.
An achingly pleasurable cramp has me groaning just before my own cock throbs and spills. I freeze at the top of a thrust inside him and let my shaft be milked by his ass as I come and come and come.
We’re both lost to it, mouths resting on cheeks, panting and grunting and still smashed close and sweaty and messy against each other. I don’t so much as collapse on top of him as I melt against him, spreading my arms out to catch some air on my overheated skin.
He places a tentative hand on my lower back as his legs relax, falling to the sides.
Coming inside a condom is a relatively disgusting feeling once the aftershocks wear off, but I’m not ready to move yet.
I’ve got my face against Knight’s sweaty neck, and he smells incredible here.
Leather and amber and the clean fresh scent of cut grass.
But he also smells like sex, and it reminds me of that night in the woods.
There’s something uniquely him about this scent.
The sense memory is incredibly specific to the first time I kissed him against that tree.
Does it bother me that the memory of his scent has stuck with me this long?
Maybe a little, but I can chalk it up to that night.
One amazing night. No other night or day I spent my entire freshman year ever managed to compete with how completely good that one was.
Our perfect night where I pictured an entirely different year for myself than the one I actually had.