Sullivan #3
He’s hard. So hard beneath me as I grind my crotch against him.
It’s not a deliberate move. More an unconscious expression of the desire that’s been building in me to be slaked for months.
From the moment I watched him step back into himself on the football field and become the man he was meant to be.
I’ve always wanted him, but I have never wanted him more than I have this fall. “I love you,” I remind him.
“Fucking prove it, then.”
“Lube your dick.”
I lift my hips off him so he can do as I say.
I give him a moment to grab the bottle, but once he’s got his hand around his erection, I’m kissing him again, hands still secured in a grip on him that’s only getting firmer.
He grunts, and I think that means he likes it.
That he wants this maybe half as much as I do.
“Are you scared?” I ask him.
“A little. But I’m not gonna stop.”
“I will break up with you for real if you do.”
“Okay, that’s the last time I’m ever gonna allow you to say that. Now get me the fuck inside you. I can’t wait anymore.”
I feel what he means when I let go of his hair to position his slick crown at my hole.
Slowly sinking onto it, memories rush at me in a burst. A twisted, but in some spots beautiful montage.
Our first time like this—my first surrender to my feelings for him.
That bastard in Detroit taking what did not belong to him.
Knight’s white truck. The woods. Peter Goddamn Gabriel singing the best, cheesiest love song in the background with the chirps of birds and the overwhelming hum of the cicadas as his accompaniment.
“Fuck me,” I demand once he’s halfway inside.
And he does. Using the bounce in the air mattress, his hips dip and lift, his cock drilling deep and sure into a hole that’s been empty for too long, and fuck do I mean a lot of things by that.
I wanted this want back. I wanted us like we were in the beginning. I wanted us the way we should have been when he was grieving his father. I wanted this long provocative kiss I steal from him with his pulse thready and quick beneath my fingers.
I don’t just sit there, either. I fuck him back, riding his lap with all the rage and all the cruelty that stole this from me for too long. I never should have given them so long.
I shift up and back and down, through squelching and our heavy breaths. Knight’s hand comes up to wrap around my wrist, and I realize how tight a grip I’ve got on his neck now. I try to loosen it some, my body stuttering to a halt in the process, but he says “No. Keep going.”
“Call me a whore.”
“Whose whore, baby?” The line of concern is back. Well earned, I think.
“Your whore. My body is—”
I gasp as we hit a particularly illicit spot, and I’m forced by my own needs to shut the fuck up and take what pleasure I can from it, which is a lot. So much, my dick thrums, and precum pours onto Knight’s shirt, which I never even bothered to push up. I should fix that, I think distantly.
He does it himself, pulling his shirt up to reveal those abs. The abs of an elite and coveted athlete. Those abs that belong to me as much as they’re his.
“Your body is what?” he rasps through his constricted airway.
“It’s just for us. You and me. No one ever has to know.”
“Because you know. Don’t you? Oh fuck—baby…”
Whore? Baby?
What does it matter when he’s so close. To me, to coming. “I wasn’t okay—”
“I know—”
“I mean without you. I’ll never be okay without you.”
He gasps roughly, his hands bruising my hips as his back arches from the mattress, and he spills inside me.
I cry out at the knowledge of it. At the gushes of cum he sputters and moans through with my hand still wrapped around his neck with so much love and also something that isn’t love—which I guess I can work on in fucking therapy.
“Jesus,” he groans as his orgasm goes on and on. “Holy fucking shit.”
With one rub of my dick across his abs and his wicked tongue plundering my mouth, I lose it.
Every shred of what went wrong for us vanishes for a crystalline, perfect moment.
Rushing back in are all the things about us that are so right it makes me want to sob.
I love this man, and I’ve claimed him now, too, haven’t I?
My orgasm is long, and hard-fought. It leaves me wrung out and vibrating.
It’s late when we’re lying next to each other, kissing and feeling and forgiving.
“I’ll do anything to keep you forever,” I tell him.
“Is that the orgasm talking?” he asks. “Because mine has a lot of shit to say, too.”
“Just say okay and you love me.”
“Tip of the iceberg,” he murmurs before pressing a soft kiss to my nose.
“Fuck you for making me want to know more about icebergs right now.”
I feel his smile when he presses his mouth to mine again. “Here’s what you need to know. They are vast, and most of the important things about them all lie beneath the surface.”
“Is loving you enough?” I ask.
“Loving each other is a start.”
“Just the tip?”
“There’s the prodigy. Yeah. It’s just the tip.”
“In terms of the rest, I’m yours,” I promise him. “Whatever that means, and whatever it takes.”
His kiss is deep and long, and I’m so happy that it happened here. In a ruin that only love and time can heal.
The shape of our love is infinity.