Follows Cloudburst
Synopsis: Buck's been patient. It pays off. The fourth and probably final in this series. It incorporates my near-obsession with the idea of Chris chopping wood, and the smell of a man who's worked up an honest sweat.
The temperature is dropping now that the sun is setting. It's melting all along the horizon like it's too lazy to hold its shape, and the evening breeze ruffles my hair. Feels good.
Hot coffee in my hand, I go to find Chris. He's been working in the barn for hours. He banished me a couple of those ago, since he wouldn't let me help and I just wouldn't leave him alone.
He acts like he doesn't understand that – that I think he's sexy as hell when he's sweaty and straining. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to connect the dots and figure I'm thinking of all the other things we could be doing to get sweaty. Besides, he's one damn fine lookin' man.
It's funny, about women – they don't mind getting sweaty with you, but to see them messed and sweaty on their own and they get all shy and self-conscious. I know that ain't Chris' hang-up; most men don't care. Personally, I suspect he just wanted to finish before midnight, and he wasn't getting nothing done with me commenting on his ass every five minutes.
And I was only voicing about half of what was on my mind.
Hell, I respond like one of those salivating dogs whenever I hear him chopping wood. Just the sight of him holding the axe over one shoulder gets me hard, not to mention him shirtless and drenched, muscles flexing and rippling … Shit, I'm half hard and I'm not half way to the barn.
And he thinks that all the times I've offered to help him around the ranch were out of pure altruism. Guess he knows better now. Maybe not.
I'd nearly forgotten how wonderful it could be out here at dusk, at night – no urban stink or noise, just crickets and wind in the grass and the creak of the barn door. Horse noises, snorting and chomping, swishing their tails and moving in their stalls. There's a Screech Owl out there, pissed off 'cause we're making noise in his home, and his scream would be scary if it didn't mean that Chris was in the barn.
Getting sweaty.
I stand in the doorway, lamplight spilling out onto the gravel, and I have to admit – damn – there ain't no view anywhere on earth like this one. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I can't help but let out a low whistle.
"Damn," I say out loud, I think. He's wiping his neck with his shirt, his shirt that he took off at some point after I left – damn him – and if he isn't the sexiest man alive, I'll eat my hat. I'll eat him. All that lean muscle, sculpted, tapered, chiseled; it's no wonder to me that the words I've heard used to describe a body like that are the same ones people use to talk about art.
He glares at me and my whistle, amused and annoyed, and wraps his soaked shirt behind his neck, over his shoulders. He's finishing his second bottle of water, but stops to consider the mug in my hand.
"Thought you might like some coffee," I say, innocently. It's a peace offering, sort of. What it really means is that he has to come within grasping distance to get it.
He eyes me, like he's reading my mind, which he probably is, and then sighs. "Yeah, guess I could. I was gonna stock up the woodpile before dark, but somehow my efforts were thwarted." He sounds much more put out than he really is. And I know this 'cause his eyes have never stopped smiling.
"Don't let me stop you." I try for sounding sincere and looking apologetic, holding one hand out towards the woodpile, but his eyes let me know that all I've achieved is transparent.
"Yeah, you'd enjoy that wouldn't you." His lips twitch as he walks closer, hand out, asking for the coffee. I have other plans.
I snag his hand and yank him into me, slopping the coffee on the floor and my shoes. "Am I that obvious?" I ask, bending to snuggle my face into the sticky curve of his neck, nuzzling the shirt out of the way.
He chuckles a little, one hand settling on my hip, gentle and light, the other hand taking the coffee and pouring it out on the floor. "Yeah, I could see you coming a mile away."
I lean back, fighting a smile. I fail. "Dang, Chris, I may be good but I'm not that good."
"Shit, Buck," he laughs, and I nudge the mug out of his other hand. It doesn't break when it falls, which right now isn't anywhere near my top concern. Or his, evidently.
I start to nuzzle him again, running my hands up his back – not that I wouldn't have enjoyed slowly peeling a soaked shirt off of his sweat-drenched back – but slip-sliding my hands up miles and miles of slick skin sure doesn't feel like settling for second best. He tries to move backwards, but I've got him.
"Christ, Buck. I can't smell that good."
Oh, but he does. "Trust me," I whisper.
It's all spice and heat, sun and hay, earth and grass, and Chris – like shot of pure, distilled masculinity – rugged and hot. So damn hot.
I'm pulling him into a kiss, possessive, demanding, kneading my hands into his back so hard I almost lift him off the ground. Oh yeah. I slide my fingers up the nape of his neck, into all that hair still wet and clinging to him, and I use that hair like a rudder, turning him. He's hanging onto me like I'm his ballast. Which is good, seeing as I plan to kiss him senseless.
"God, you smell hot, you feel hot, you're the most incredibly fucking gorgeous thing I've ever seen –" I think half my words are lost against his skin, my mouth torn between words and tastes. I'm licking and sucking up the salty column of his neck, grabbing the shirt and tossing it to join the coffee mug, and I refold my fingers into his hair, pulling him to get to more of his throat.
"You don't have to sweet-talk me, Buck." The words buzz against my lips on his throat, his voice sounding like a thousand nights of hard liquor and smoke-filled saloons.
"Ain't sweet-talkin', Chris. I'm just in love."
I just let that statement dissolve into the air around us, not expecting any kind of reply, and then I go back to work. There's a little pool of sweat in the hollow of his clavicle, like the sweet nectar of the gods, and I set to lapping at it. Gross, I guess, but probably not as gross to him as some of the places I'd like to stick my tongue. I can't help sucking on the ridge of his collarbone and rooting up to nip at the juncture of neck and shoulder. Over the hard muscle. Beside the pounding pulse.
When I rake my teeth, open-mouthed, up to his ear, he shudders and swears at me, "Goddamn, Buck," tense and straining, ending on a moan.
So I stop teasing the lobe and just plunge right in, scouring his ear like I'm digging for gold. Fuck yeah, these are the sounds I like to hear. My hands are in his hair and on his back; my groin is pressed to his; I'm feeling and hearing his every breath – I almost forget we're standing at the barn door.
"Fuck, yeah," I say, low and dirty, one hand snaking down between his legs for a taunting caress. He jumps. "I bet all of you tastes as good."
We haven't done much since I've been shot, since I've been healing. This is all new to him. And so I've been patient. Really patient. I deserve a medal.
But this – shirtless and hot in the barn – I can't resist this. Number 22 in my 'Fantasies of Chris Larabee' book. The most beautiful thing ever.
He's gotten used to this – this whole thing – a lot faster than I would have thought, or dreamed. Though that's a damn lie. This has been, and is, my one dream. The one recurring, repeating, broken-record unfulfilled fantasy of my life. Having Chris in my arms. Waking or sleeping, this was it. This is it.
And I get this now. I get to have this. Him. This. Yeehaw. And for so much wanting for so long, I'm doing damn good at being patient. I haven't had sex for this long since I was fifteen, and I'm not just talking about this week. A while back, I put myself on indefinite hold.
And you know, I didn't start out to seduce him. I just faced up to the fact that I got all I needed out of life from just being with him, as a friend – and if that's what my future, our future held – well then, I'd come to terms with that.
Shit, I mean, we had our first kiss a week ago, and I've been here, still recuperating, and I've let him worry and fuss, and make sure I take my meds and do my PT, and I feel much better than he believes I do. But arguing with me about it is just his surly way of telling me he loves me, so I don't mind.
For something that was as new as all this is, for Chris, he's managed to slip into the rhythm of it pretty damn easily. And I'm not just talking about sharing the same house, cooking and cleaning up, and the quiet routines of horses and watching TV and brushing teeth, and stuff. All that stuff we know. It's the making out on the couch instead of actually watching the TV that is a novelty, and I have to say that it is now my second favorite pastime. His too, though he hasn't let me do more than that.
He's still worried about my shoulder, and so I let him. It's good for him to feel like he's at least in control of that.
'Cause he sure ain't in control of this.
Goddamn, I want to be able to spread Chris out on the bed, on his bed, all the lights on, and explore every solid, defined, panting inch of him. This bare-chested, sticky, mussed up, middle-aged man before me – it's like holding the winning ticket in a wet-dreams sweepstakes.
My mouth is all over his, and I need, I need – I bring one hand around his hip, over his fly, and mold my palm to him, really learning the shape of him for the first time. So that's where all his heat comes from. His cock feels so good in my hand even through denim.
He shudders again, head to toe, and if I were a tea kettle, I'd be singing, blowing steam out of my ears. I cup him strong and squeeze a little, humming along my tongue in his mouth – and he bucks into me. Sweet Jesus.
"Inside," he growls. "Inside. I need to shower."
"No you don't." He tries to tilt his head, which is difficult with mine almost attached to his. "No shower," I repeat, pulling back to see the expression on his face that clearly suggests I'm unhinged.
So I just smile, and take his hand.
God, in the half light, with the glow of the moon warring with the last of the sun, he looks about nineteen. I knew he was the sexiest man I'd ever meet way back then, and that hasn't changed. The only thing that's changed is that I stopped denying it; I stopped running. And, by God, he finally caught up to me.
We enter the house at the same time, leaving our shoes on the porch, and I pull him into a little dance guaranteed to make him smile. He does; I can feel it on my neck. We danced that first night, when he finally figured it out, figured us out. We danced right here in the living room, listening to the rain outside, and he let me lead. No subtle message there.
I know I'm the one who knows what I'm doing, and it isn't lost on me what he's offering me. The greatest fucking gift in the world. He's handing the reins over to me and letting me lead. 'Cause he knows me, he knows I'll take care of him - more so now than I ever have in our lives. And even if he never admits it, he knows he's in over his head.
This is a once-married, lifelong heterosexual man who has spent the last week learning what it feels like to get a hard-on from kissing another man. Shit, I'd be scared.
In me, this scares up something that I've fought for so long and so hard to keep at bay – Christ, I don't know if it is possible to die from waiting more, but I reckon we're on our way to testing the notion. Only, I hope we don't stop at the couch tonight. Although – I grin – over the back of the couch is Number 17.
He's holding on a little tight, and I can feel the tension in him, so I hum, making music to my rhythm. He sighs, a trembling sound, like the tremor that just ran through him, and so, carefully, I spin us out of the dance just at the doorway to his bedroom.
And he surprises me by not letting go, by reaching up for a kiss.
Just a kiss. Just a simple thing with his hand cupping my face, and mine stroking his jaw with the pad of my thumb. God, I hope I never grow tired of this. Impossible. So much tenderness and pulsing desire in these kisses without tongue. It ignites something in me, deep and terrible beneath my skin. Makes me hard even to think about it. Much less feel it.
Chris has to tilt up, to lean up, and I'm in love with the fact that he has to do that. He works my lips with total, single-minded devotion, and I'm like a junkie needing this fix more than my next breath. He has me pressed against the doorframe and I can feel him on my thigh, I can feel how he wants this. What a rush that is, knowing that I did this to him – so much a rush I feel light-headed, and I am so hard I could split diamonds.
"How's your shoulder?"
"What?" I think I heard the words, but I'm not sure. I boggle. "Fuck my shoulder."
"That's not … really what I had in mind." He sounds as nervous saying it as he sounds sexy, and Christ, it's nearly enough to send me over the edge, hearing that alone.
"Fuck yeah." Damn, my voice has never been that low. Yeehaw indeed.
His whole body is still so hot, even though the sweat is drying, except at the nape of his neck, which I grab like a hand hold, like the only lifeline between me and a plummeting death. Chris radiates more sexual heat than anyone I've ever known – except that he doesn't fucking believe it. Thinks that fire died out forever ago, and here I am, so close, all I can do is willingly go up in flames.
I capture his mouth this time, and he opens up, meeting my tongue, which is as eager to get in on the action as my cock. His kisses only get hotter – just banking that fire deeper and deeper, stoking it with tongues and teeth and suction. From tender to 'check out my tonsils' in a matter of seconds.
Yeah, I could live on this, die of this, stay in suspended animation for years on end drinking his kisses and learning what it means when someone promises forever without ever saying the words.
If Chris never says the words, the important words, I'll know it anyway.
Damn, the things Chris can do with his tongue, just standing here like we have all the time in the world and I'm not about to disintegrate into ashes. Now I'm the one trembling.
Chris breaks the kiss slowly, achingly slow, like taking a long draw from a bottle, and it ends on this obscene smacking sound that has him grinning – that sly, out-of-the-corner, 'this old dog has plenty of new tricks' grin that is as close as I think we'll get to a verbal invitation tonight. Hot damn.
Momma Wilmington didn't raise no fool – I have him in the room and backed up to the bed faster than – shit, I didn't think I could move that fast.
I think I've grown extra hands. I can't get enough of touching him, and he's kissing me like he's hungry, deep down starved, so I pull back far enough to look into his eyes. Christ, it's like I can see forever in there, all the hunger, all the emptiness that's mine to fill. All the years of grief and pain, and happiness too. Sometimes I think he forgets that's in there.
Those beautiful calloused hands are unbuttoning my shirt, and he's leaning in to re-introduce his mouth to my skin, button by button. He's been pretty forward about necking, not leaving marks or the like, but not shy about it – 'cause he knows me well enough to know that I'm up for anything. Everything. I don't know how I've survived without this.
I just hold his hips, keep still for a little while, because I don't care what most men think about it, but I love foreplay. And so does he. Can I get another yeehaw?
Not that I don't enjoy a good take-no-prisoners fuck, hard and fast, but not here, not now. Not the first time. Or he'll have to explain his limp to the boys tomorrow. We haven't gotten around to telling them, though I think that most of them will sense the change in the atmosphere and figure it out.
Like the room is now – full of static crackle, like wool socks on thick carpeting – his mouth moves on me and the whole air vibrates. I bend my head to give him more access as he shoves my shirt off my shoulders, and I let it fall to the floor. Finally, God, his skin on mine and I don't care that he's still a little sticky. It's raw and natural, and I'm all over that like white on rice – like I plan to be all over him.
The pads of his thumbs find my nipples, brush over them, making me shiver.
"Like that?" He whispers, and does it again. This time I groan. And it becomes something more like a snarl when he settles his palm over my hard-on and rubs it. "Like this?"
I can't tell if he's asking me if I enjoy it, or if that's how I like to have it, but it doesn't matter. One last marauding kiss on his lips with my hand in the damp hair his neck, and I shove him over onto the bed.
I want to laugh – he looks so startled that I did that. But his lips are all puffy and pouting. Sexy as hell on a man who never pouts.
His knees are bent and his feet are on the floor, so I stand in the vee of his thighs and run my hands up them. Instinctively, he flexes those solid muscles and all I can think about is how they'll feel wrapped around me while I pile drive him into the mattress.
Though, if he wants to, he can go first. I'm easy. Newsflash that that is.
I lean over him and start trying my very best to lick the salt off of his chest. That fucking amazing chest. Just 'cause it's hard-packed in stead of soft, don't mean I can't enjoy it. Most guys are boob guys. Or leg guys. I'm an ass man myself, and the humor of that isn't lost on me. The right ass on the right person, man or woman, just skyrockets me. And Chris, well, has the finest ass on any creature I've ever seen. The most beautiful thing ever. The only thing I like better are nipples. And Chris is gonna figure that out right now.
Chris makes a half-barked, half-hiccuped sound that I've never heard as I put all my years of practice to work, feeling his nipples pebble up beneath my tongue. Nibbling is good too, really good if his sounds are any sign. And my personal favorite – suckling. I get one nipple as hard as I can and then I wrap my lips around it and suck, tonguing it up even more, until I feel his fingers nearly ripping the hair out of my skull.
"Jesus Christ, Buck. You could make me come just from that."
"Really?" I look across his heaving chest into really amazed hazel eyes, and I feel weirdly proud of that. "You saying I should stop, then?" I give the happy little feller one last lick, and Chris' whole body jerks.
"Not unless you want this to end before it begins," he says in all seriousness. Then he laughs at himself, still breathing hard.
And I move on. Moving on entails a lot of fluttering stomach and silly sounds that I can't identify – except that maybe they mean he's ticklish. Or still nervous. I lick a line all across the waist of his jeans, tasting the sweat that got caught there, and I wish I could undo the button with my teeth, but as tight as he wears his jeans, there ain't no way without chipping a tooth.
So I stand up, and for a second he looks positively abandoned. That does make me laugh, and I keep grinning from it as I grab hold of his knees and scoot his ass nearly off the bed. I keep eye contact the whole time I unbutton and unzip him, making sure that he knows what I'm about to do and that he wants it. Of course he wants it. World's best lie-detector is being sprung free as we speak. His eyes are huge and dark, and his tongue escapes to lick his lips, and that does it for me.Boots and jeans are gone, torn off and tossed backwards. I think a boot hit a wall out in the hallway but I don't care. And I'm sinking to my knees so fast it hurts, but I don't care. God, all that's left is this really thin layer of cotton, and there's a quarter-sized dark stain molding it to the top of Chris' cock just begging to be tasted.
I lean forward and bury my nose in that cotton, and holy mother, I think that animal sound was mine. It's like free-basing lust; a straight shot hitting my blood with the force of a tidal wave. I'm sixteen again. All the villagers are fleeing and running for their lives in the face of my raging hormones.
This is more than I can handle. The stark, pungent musk, the heat – I think I'm drooling. I peel the boxers only part way down before I'm diving like a bird of prey.
"Jesus!" Chris is trying to arch and flail, but I've got him pinned across the waist and I'm inhaling him. Straight down. I can feel the vein pulsing under my tongue. I can feel the soft hair of his balls tickling my chin. He tastes as good as he looks, and I didn't even take that much time to appreciate it.
God, I do want this to last, but I can't help it. Here I am, the take-my-time, make-them-writhe foreplay man, and I'm devouring him, up and down and up and down, hand following mouth on all that hot, silky skin. Chris' fingers are clawing the sheets. Slow down Buck.
I slow and lift off, and look up. I think he was that close that fast – that he just might kill me. Least that's what his eyes are telling me. His head is up off the bed and he's drilling me with a desperate glare. So I give the head of his cock a wicked flick with my tongue. That's enough to make him fall back onto the bed with a bit of a strangled cry, and enough to make me want to spend some more time there, taking my time with this one spot, licking this glorious, flushed cockhead like a tootsie pop.
He's seriously leaking, so I tease the slit, tasting him, pushing my tongue into the tiny hole. It's like an earthquake swept through him, and his fists are clenching and unclenching in my hair. This is beyond fantasy. This is perfect. His body is perfect, his sounds are perfect, every twitch of his muscles is perfect. I circle round and round the purple head, and then I taken it between my lips and suck, gently, purposefully, while my free hand finds his balls.
Random thoughts. Hair much softer than I would have thought, softer than mine down there. Always knew he had a pair on him. Suspicions confirmed.
I roll the heavy sac in my fingers, tug a little, feeling his boys already so tight against him that it's a wonder he isn't cursing. So I keep sucking a little lower on his shaft and press my thumb into the silky skin behind his balls.
Jesus. Chris's entire body just lurched like he's been shot, and I look up at him, my mouth stilled and smiling around his cock.
"Buck, please."
Begging isn't something I thought I'd ever hear from him. It's croaked and frantic. His cock is doing some wild twitching in my mouth, and I'm not even doing anything.
So I take pity. I am, after all, a sympathetic sort of person.
I take him deep, deep into my throat, (I won't tell him how I learned to deep-throat) and I swallow. I mold my tongue around the underside him. And I hum. And I press with the pad of my thumb.
Holy shit. Chris' body is arching like a bow and he's exploding in my mouth, over my tongue, like a river of salt water. Thick, hot streams of come, on and on – and I swallow, and continue to swallow, drinking everything he has to give me, wishing there was more.
Some of the most creative blasphemy I've ever heard is being hissed into the air. Only when he starts to soften in my mouth, and his sounds are more like whimpers, do I let him slip from my lips with one last loving slurp.
It's been a while since I've done that, so I sit back on my heels, massaging my jaw and admiring my handiwork. I very much admire, eye level with his groin, and it only gets better when I pull his boxers off the rest of the way and fling them behind me.
A glance at the clock tells me that he hasn't had that done to him in way too long, 'cause the entire onslaught from doorway to bed took eight minutes. And I think I've killed him. He is a mindless puddle of slack-jawed, trembling nerves – body still twitching in aftershocks. He looks destroyed. But, damn, it was fun. Took the edge off. And now I get to have more fun.
It's only a kind of afterthought that informs me that I'm still half dressed. And aching.
Ok, he's still loopy, so I've got time to strip. Holy mother, that's better. I sigh when I unzip my jeans, and shimmy out of everything, and then I crawl up on the bed next to my man, who seems to be coming around. Sleepily coming around, but nonetheless, maybe more up to the challenge of forming one word sentences.
"Hey," I whisper, leaning over to press a feather-light kiss on his loose mouth.
Chris blinks once, twice, and licks his lips. "Fuck, that was … damn."
"It sure was."
He's scooting awkwardly more onto the bed, aiming for center, but gives up like he just can't make it. I smile. And then he groans, bending one elbow over his eyes. "Sorry I didn't warn you. I just…sorry."
"Nothin' to be sorry for," I reply in total honesty. "Nothing at all."
"I wouldn't call it nothing." His elbow is gone and his eyebrow rises in challenge.
That has me laughing and leering, and I slither up the length of his naked body to brace my hands on either side of his head. "I'd call it perfect," I sigh on my way down, giving Chris a proper kiss, letting my tongue slip out to say 'howdy'. Can't tell if he's the kind who likes to taste himself, though, so I don't try to remap the roof of his mouth.
I know he feels me like this, can't avoid it with my dick jammed up into his hip, and he breaks the kiss. "Lie down," he says. And who am I to argue with the boss?
I lie down, presenting myself to him. He leans up on an elbow right alongside me, and just stares. Hands folded behind my head, I give him a grin like 'you figure it out.'
Here we are, buck nekkid on top of the covers, me having just sucked him dry, and he looks almost shy. Serious and shy. But, like I said, he catches on quick, and soon he's using that hand to trace aimless patterns on my skin. Only Chris could put this much concentration into lovemaking – he's nearly biting his lip, studying me, memorizing everywhere his hand lands and my breath hitches.
I love to touch, I love being touched; he knows this.
He finds one spot on my ribcage particularly interesting, and he lowers his mouth there. Then his mouth follows his fingers, and I am lost. Lost to him. I move a hand to his cornsilk hair, almost petting him, murmuring low in my chest as he kisses across my body and up to meet my lips.
Open for him, in all conceivable ways, I let his tongue glide against mine. Deep and filling. Fulfilling. Languid, slow kisses, like a man who knows he's good at it and wants to make sure you know it too. I do.
He nibbles at my bottom lip and tugs on it when he backs off. There's mischief there. It's nice. But when his eyes drift to the pink scar on my shoulder, they get very glossy and sad.
"Hey, don't go there. Don't do that." I cup his cheek in my palm. "I'm right here. All six foot four, two hundred pounds of me." I clasp his free hand, putting it right over my heart. He's got it, always has, and the rest of me comes with it.
He nods, but can't help kissing the scar. It's one of many, but that doesn't make it less of an issue with him. He's got enough of his own, but I don't fear them like he does. And they don't make me sad.
He gives the scar a good glare, but gives it up, moving onto better things. My eyes fly wide when warm fingers close around my cock. He looks in my eyes, and then back at his hand around my dick, and he's studying it like he's never seen one before. I think my heart rate just doubled. He's scooting down to get a closer look, all the while just running his hand up and down in a lax stroke that has me leaking even more than I already was. My belly is streaked with trails of precome, and if he does what I think he's gonna do –
Oh sweet Jesus.
He's licking my stomach, cleaning me off with his tongue. "God, Chris. Ohhhh," my voice slides off in a moan. Those rough fingers are teasing me, and he's eye to eye with it, like he's looking into a telescope. Then suddenly he changes positions, over my legs and bending down. "Oh God, Chris," I say, like these are the only three words I know.
His first lick is hesitant, enough to drive me completely crazy. He's licking his lips, making a small smacking sound, learning the stronger taste. Oh please, I hope he doesn't hate it.
Oh thank you. He's licking all across the head of my cock, kind of randomly, like he doesn't have any idea what he wants or what I want. Doesn't matter. This is what I want, and it feels like being born. He takes as much of me as he can into his mouth – which isn't much, 'cause he's new at it and I'm more than a mouthful – and I reach down, feeling his cheeks hollow as he sucks a little. Oh God, maybe it feels more like flying.
"Chris." I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until he stops. "Oh God, don't stop," I kind of laugh. Whatever he does now is great. Greatness.
But he does stop, and creeps back up to my mouth. Gentle kissing. So much in these kisses I can't put into words. He's making love to me with his mouth to the point that my whole body quivers, to the point that an orgasm is almost unnecessary.
Then he parts his legs and pushes down, rubbing against me with brain-melting pressure. So intensely he's staring into my eyes. He's not aligned to be dick on dick, but almost as if he's trying to –
"Can we…does it work like this?"
It takes me much longer than it should to find my voice, which sounds truly broken. "Like what this?" My sex-stupid brain isn't connected to my mouth, not with what he's doing. I'm so close.
"With me on top."
"Like this?" I echo. Sure. You can't go wrong with a little old-fashioned friction. But we're going in circles with this whole question process. Some serious catching up is in order on my part.
Uh-oh. He looks angry. Or embarrassed. He's stopped moving.
I wince apologetically, 'cause I guess I need it spelled out for me. He hangs his head. And then he sits up again, straddling me, and really glares at me. "I'm asking you to fuck me, Buck, and I'm asking if it's okay like this."
"Yes," I nearly shout – with glee, "Yes we can do it like that. Like this. Yes. Yes, definitely." I'm a blithering idiot.
He huffs out a laugh, and then he swears angrily, "Goddamnit! I don't have any condoms."
I smile hugely and pat his hip to scoot him off of me. "Be right back." And I am, right back. "I was a boy scout," I say, proudly laying a strip of condoms and a tube of lube on the mattress. I always have some with me.
"No you weren't."
"But I wanted to be."
"No you didn't." He's no fun; he knows me too well.
Belly crawling toward him, I snag a hand and pull him down beside me, and let him know what I think of his smart mouth. Hands stroking his back, mouth on his, one leg thrown over. Warm sounds from my throat. Warm all over.
I start some serious kisses, long and wet, and he's happy to try to suck my tongue right out of my mouth. I slick up my fingers while he's distracted, and I roll him a little, nudging his legs apart with my knee.
At first touch, he tenses, he tenses big time. It's instinctive. But I keep kissing him, and I keep circling his oh-so-tight hole. A single finger round and round, pressing a little until he's moaning garbled things and spreading his legs wider. Wider for me. Yeehaw hardly covers the sentiment.
More brief tension when I breach him for the first time. Just the tip of my forefinger, up to the first knuckle, and then back out. In and back out, feeling that ring of muscle grasp me eagerly and nearly suck me back in. Jesus, God, I'm grateful for years of mastering self-control because I could get off just like this – just listening to his throaty noises, and feeling his tongue in my mouth, and finger-fucking him.
I slide my finger all the way in now and pull out slowly. He pulls off of my mouth to drag in a breath like a man on the ragged edge of death. And it's accompanied by the most debauched moaning I've ever heard.
And fuck it, if my bad shoulder doesn't pick this moment to seriously start hurting. Damnit. I move my mouth to his ear and whisper. "Hey, my shoulder … get on top of me." He wanted it like that anyway.
Dazed and panting, he clambers on top, straddling me, and he lifts up so I can keep stretching him. God, this is Chris. This is Chris. This is Chris and me. He's giving himself to me, and I have to stop thinking about it or I'm going to cry.
I reach over and get some more lube, and I add a second finger. Not near as much tension this time. He's got his eyes closed and sweat is beading all over his face and chest, his whole torso exposed to me, on me. And his cock is waking up. I greedily watch it twitch and swell with each stroke of my fingers.
I can't get a good enough angle like this to touch him deep enough, to stroke him where he needs it. And I don't know how much more I can take, really, watching him ride my fingers, feeling him brush up against my dick every now and then. I've been hard for what feels like a decade.
"Scoot back a little," I tell him as I withdraw my fingers. He does, and raises up some more so I can grease up, not stopping to warm the lube. My cock hates the cold shock of the gel, but it's better than going off like a rocket ten seconds after I get in him and then passing out.
"Okay. You're in charge, pard." I hold my dick up, and he looks down at it and me as he lines himself up. "Easy, Chris, real easy. Slowly. It's gonna hurt at first." He nods, but doesn't look at me. I can feel him feeling me, feeling himself, and he starts to push himself down. "Breathe out," I tell him, "Breathe out and bear down a little."
He winces as, oh sweet mother, the head of my cock is starting to breach him. Oh God. It's the sweetest torture.
"Slowly," I command him, in complete disagreement with every instinct in my body. "That's it."
He's breathing so hard, and he makes a sound that isn't a good one – I know it hurts – and finally, finally, the tip of my cock pops into him. I have to focus on the ceiling or I won't last even ten seconds. The sight of him, God Almighty, the sight of him impaling himself on me, the strain in his face and the concentration – I've never seen anything more beautiful.
"Breathe, Chris." I reach up and massage his thighs, and he looks at me without really seeing me. Eyes so passion-black and unfocused, his entire body shaking, he's sliding down me with a long, wheezing, constricted moan.
And that's it, I'm in him, all the way. Whole.
His breaths even out as he leans and splays his hands across my chest, adjusting us just enough that I move in him. "God, Buck. God."
His arms are struggling to hold him, so I clasp his elbows and tell him I love him. Can't think of a better thing to say. He nods and mouths 'I know', and moves. Everything moves; the sky, the stars, the room, the water that is seeping out of the corners of my eyes. Very small movements at first, like the pebble that starts the avalanche, he starts fucking himself on me, gathering strength and rhythm – and sound. I never heard such sound. Never thought he'd be vocal, but he's grunting and moaning with every lift and press of his hips.
And it's like it's too much for him, like one more move and he's going to split apart at the seams.
"Hey, sit back, and up. Nothing wrong with my hips," I tell him, my voice sounding like I've been eating sand.
He splays his legs a little wider as he sits back, and nearly shouts as I rub up inside him just right. "Oh…..fuck! God. Oh fuck."
His head lolls back, too heavy on his neck, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Like one of those religious paintings of saints, mindless drunk in ecstasy, his head is thrown back and his mouth is hanging loose, chest is heaving, glowing with perspiration. He picks up my rhythm, and I pick up the pace, my knees bending for purchase, feet flat on the rumpled bedspread. Hey, we're not even under the sheets yet. He tucks his hips each time I drive up into him, hitting his pleasure spot every time; sweat-slicked smacking sounds almost drowned out by the groans he can't contain.
My hands drift over his chest to his dick, full now, jutting out like a handle bar, and I grab it, so I can fuck him both ways. My cock inside him and his in my fist. God, the sight of the head of his cock, angry red, disappearing and reappearing behind the circle of my fingers – squeezing back and forth like his ass is squeezing me – this is the most erotic sight I've ever seen. The most beautiful fucking thing.
I realize I'm chanting now, in time to his breaths and my thrusts, I love you, I love you – over and over like I'm making up for all the years we've wasted. I don't think he even hears me. I'm pounding up into him hard enough to make the muscles in my ass and thighs spasm.
The loudest sound I've ever heard during sex bursts out of his mouth, and he's exploding all over my chest and stomach, some almost hits my ear, while every muscle in his body goes completely stiff. I'm right behind him, grunting out an all-consuming, mind-swallowing orgasm. Lights behind my eyes, nearly convulsing as I empty myself into him, God, into him. And it occurs to me that we completely forgot about the condoms.
I watch the last drops of him dribble over my fingers, and he collapses straight down onto me, face into my messy chest, making some more of those whimpering sounds that I know better than to ever mention in the light of day. They're helpless and uncontrolled, and the sweetest sounds I think I'll ever hear.
His shuddering body is a welcome weight on mine, and I'm content, no – I'm happy, really fucking happy, just to stroke his skin and kiss the top of his head. But we're too old to hold this position for long and not regret it in the morning, so I whisper to him. He's already on the freight train to sex endorphin sleep, and not that I don't want to get on board, but he's gotta move.
"Hey, Chris, let's get you settled." I reach around and take hold of his ass, shifting him up and me down, sliding me out of him. I can feel my semen drool out of him, down onto my hip, as I roll him off of me. He complains with an unhappy sound, like a child disturbed in a dream, and I smile as he rolls and gloms onto me, throwing limbs across me and aiming his mouth at mine.
Sweet slow sloppy kissing, and I'm happier than I have ever been in my life. His breath hovers on my neck where he buries his face. I pull on the corner of the quilt, bringing it over us, him mostly. I figure we'll work out the sleeping arrangements later – like turn down the bed before you get in it. Simple stuff. Simple things lost in the heat of the moment. I like it when those things get lost.
Suddenly his head pops up, more like wobbles, and his brows furrow in the middle. "What time the boys comin' tomorrow?"
"Round noon, I guess." I touch his face. I won't tell him, but he's got some of his own spunk drying on his cheek. We'll work out the cleaning-up details later, too.
"Good. Sleep now. We have time in the morning."
Time for what, I don't need to ask. He misses my overly fond smile as his head hits my shoulder again. I love this man more than life.
Sometime after I feel his breaths slow down and stretch out, his hand gropes to his face and he scratches it in his sleep. Yeah, that stuff itches when it dries.
His arm across my chest again and his leg across my thighs, and he knows I'll take care of him. More now than ever. All I can see of him is the top of his head and one of his feet down by my calf, and I think that I might have to change my mind. This – this is the most beautiful sight I've ever seen.THE END