Page 57 of Second Song

Never.

All I do is cling, and not due to any fear of falling, and so what if the bolt on the door digs into my back? We’re connected from mouth to pelvis and that’s all that matters.

We fit.

We also slot straight back into the same give-and-take rhythm as every single time we’ve connected until he hefts me away from the door. We don’t make it to my bedroom. He drops onto the sofa, and I’m not sure if that’s because he doesn’t want to rush this like last time. He needn’t worry. I straddle him beside shelves full of books left by the last couple who lived here, kissing him next to guides on getting married and books about happy endings.

Wanting one for us is all kinds of premature and pointless, yet he holds me so tight we could almost fuse together. I slip away then, only from his lap to get my clothes off. That still feels new to do in front of someone watching, like scales I played falteringly at first, unpractised. I shouldn’t be this uncertain if I’m going too fast or too slow with him. Not when we’ve already fucked, and the whole world’s seen evidence that I’m no stranger to getting naked, yet Liam watching me while heavy-eyed means I fumble buttons.

He unfastens his fly for me, his zip down, his hips lifting, his gaze on me the whole time like he’ll lock away what he sees, and not to add it as a notch on a social media bedpost. He shoves his trousers down next, and I stop thinking of anything but what he’s uncovered for me.

His cock is already thick under a last covering of cotton. A wet patch darkens the fabric, and I only hesitate for a moment before pressing my mouth to that dampness. It’s sharp like him, strong too, and I want more—all of him—with nothing left between us.

I must have reached out. His chest heaves under my palm, each ragged inhale and exhale telling me to go ahead and do it. His breaths gust, parting my hair as I mouth that damp patch, getting it so much wetter, which makes no sense. Sucking on cotton should dry my mouth, not make saliva flood, shouldn’t it? He shifts, thigh tensing under my palm as the head of his cock pushes past his waistband, and I taste him. He’s smooth under my tongue, the taste sharper. His voice isn’t. If anything, for a first time, it’s shaky.

“How long have we got?”

Here?

I don’t know how long demolition projects usually take from start to finish. If I can make myself finish that writing task for Luke, I could stay for longer, and Liam?—

“Row? You said we have a while before you’re missed. How long is that?”

Ah. He meant how long do we have right now, which makes sense. It’s also a good reminder not to look too far ahead, like the last time I did, predicting success.

Predicting? I’d banked on winning.

“Row?”

Here’s proof that Liam isn’t only as strong as when he hauled me up a cliff face single-handed. Now I’m back on his lap with no avoiding that his hold turns careful. Gentle. There’s also no avoiding he hasn’t included himself in that missing-person headcount. He doesn’t expect anyone to miss him when he could be out there bonding with Dom’s team.

The problem is, I don’t want to call a halt to this. Not yet. Not while Liam’s hand skims up and down my back, and I remember the last time it did that, except above frothing water. Only I’m not panicking right now. I kiss him again and unbutton his shirt to get my hands on his skin, on his chest, on the black hair over a heart thudding hard while he kisses me back, as wet and desperate as me, before I squirm a hand back between us.

I squeeze his dick. He groans into my mouth. Those long strokes up and down my back cease.

The earth shifts then. Or I do. I’m tipped onto my back with a blurry view of oak beams until Liam leans over me to get my fly unfastened. Like back in that garden, his mouth on my cock is amazing—hot and slick and giving—and there’s no music playing anywhere close, not even Teo’s drumming, but a nearby hum reaches a high pitch.

It’s me.

Because of Liam.

He wrecks me and isn’t slow about it, but maybe that’s due to him hearing the same clock chiming a half-hour warning as I do. Who knows if anyone is watching a clock for us, but his head bobs fast, his shoulder also shifting. He’s getting himself off, and I don’t want that. Not when I can do it for him.

I must also be stronger than he expects—I pull, and he lurches off-balance. He also laughs, and I like that wheezing huff, even if we’re a tangle of limbs with knees and elbows in all the wrong places until once again we slot together.

We’re top to tail this time, all hot mouths and the silky slide of foreskins. His hips jerk, and I choke. I also clamp a hand on his arse until he does it again, and then I’m on a rollercoaster ride with peaks of sensation and troughs of spangled vision, of not enough air and almost too much stimulation when he shifts again.

I’m flat on my back and he’s braced over me, one hand exploring as he sucks my cock, and I guess where that exploration is headed. I had no idea I’d like him inside me as much as I do, but here I am, lifting a leg up and out of his way and then propping it on the back of the sofa. There’s a spit slick finger inside me, then two, and a slicker thumb sliding along my perineum.

I’m caught in a hold beyond describing, a crescendo waiting to happen, an explosion in suspended action. My toes curl, and it’s almost game over for me.

I don’t know how I end up on my feet, only that I’m hustled to the hallway door. Liam steers me through it. “Lube.” That’s an order. “I’ve got a condom.”

We make it to the bathroom where I fumble for what else the last people who shared this space must have bought in bulk. Liam’s laughs echo against tile, and another mirror shows his flush, his amusement, a smile that condenses once his condom is rolled on and he’s slick behind me. His mouth is rough against my shoulder, his gaze darting to the open bathroom door where two other doors are visible across the hallway. “Which is yours?”

Christ, he sounds gritty, a man on a mission that I can’t wait for. I lift a leg again, knee on the edge of the sink, and this “Yeah?” from him is primal. But so am I the moment the head of his cock nudges inside. Not saying that I see stars, more like something much closer and hotter, a burn that doesn’t stop until he does.

His forehead is against the nape of my neck, his breaths staggered. I am too at how this feels. He’s so deep inside me, he must be right up against my voice box. I can’t speak when he asks, “Yeah?” again. I can nod though and like last time, we’re off and running as if this is what we’re made for. Like fucking me this hard is fundamental to him.

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