Page 63 of One Last Try

He’s on his feet in seconds. “Lead the way,” he says, as though he’s never stepped foot in this house before and has no idea where to go.

I stand, slot my fingers between his, and pull him through the rooms downstairs and up to my bedroom. I whip my T-shirt off as Owen closes the bedroom door. An old-fashioned thumb latch clicks closed. Instantly I’m onhim, closing the space between us, crowding him into the ancient wooden door behind.

I claim his mouth with mine, and we kiss as though we’re running out of time. It’s frantic, and urgent, and desperate. Our teeth clash. His beard scratches my freshly shaved skin. Our hands wander everywhere. Gone are the tentative touches from the other night, when I’d lingered my fingers near the hem of his shirt, wondering if I’d be taking it too far by sliding them underneath, whether I’d be making a mistake.

Now my hands are under his Henley, grabbing fistfuls of his flesh as I dry hump him like a desperate animal.

We pause only to remove clothing, and to pant into each other’s mouths as we grind our hips and ride out the sensation, stealing whatever friction we can. As soon as we’ve caught even half a breath, our lips are reunited.

“On the bed,” I tell him, and Owen obeys. I tug his boxers off and soak up every single detail of Owen Bosley’s naked body—his round hairy belly, robust chest and shoulders, hard cock. Shit, he’s beautiful, lying on his back, staring up at me. Cheeks all pink, hazel eyes unfocused. I’ve already decided tonight will end when I paint him with my cum.

“Do you want some music?” I ask. Music always makes it less awkward to be naked in front of someone else.

“Sure,” Owen says.

I collect my phone from the pocket of my discarded shorts and select a playlist, sending the tunes via Bluetooth to the Echo in the bedroom.

Too late, I realise Alexa is going to throw me under the bus.

Its feminine voice speaks. “Playing music from your playlistSongs to Get Railed To.”

I slap a hand over my face before I can clock Owen’s reaction. “Good fucking Lord. Why am I like this?”

“It’s adorable,” he says. I peer between my fingers at him. He’s casually stroking his cock, and raises an eyebrow. Now, I know eyebrows do not have personalities, but this one does. It’s cheeky as fuck. “Say, Wild Card? What’s in your bottom drawer?”

I drop my hand all the way and gape at him. He does that famous Owen Bosley laugh where he throws his head back to project as much sound as possible.

“The other night, when you were pissed, you told me not to look inside it—”

“Did I?” Fuck.

“Just wondering what you were hiding.”

I purse my lips together, glance at the ceiling, and gather my strength or courage or I dunno, whatever it is I need to be honest with Owen and show him that part of myself, or make up a last-second lie.

Only, I’ve never been great at lying. Lies come out clunky and weird and I’m convinced the other person can see right through them.

“Actually, don’t worry about it. You don’t have to tell me,” he says, obviously sensing my hesitation.

“It’s fine, I guess. You already found out about my fucking playlist.” I walk over to the bottom drawer and open it. Owen sits up on the mattress and peers over. “I like gadgets,” I say in my own defence.

“Wow, I don’t . . .” He’s on his feet, creeping closer to me. “I don’t even know what half of those things are for.”

“Really?” I can’tnotbe touching him any more, especially since he’s so close to me and naked and hard, so I curve my hand over his hip, tug him closer still. “From left to right you have fleshlights, cock rings, dildos, P-spot massagers, and butt plugs. I’m not into pain,” I say, as though explaining why there aren’t any restraints or paddles or anything belonging to those equipment types. “And that pointy thing on the end right there is a heating rod . . . to, uh . . . warm things up before I stick . . . things inside.

“They all look so . . . high tech. I guess I had an idea of what sex toys look like, but . . . yeah, it wasn’t this.” His fingers idly trace up my chest. “Which is your favourite.”

“That’s like asking me to choose my favourite kind of potato. Depends on my mood. But generally this is my go-to aid.” I kneel and pick up a compact, L-shaped prostate massager. I switch the vibrate function on and it buzzes.

“It’s . . . so small,” Owen says. I place the device in his hand. “So . . . you just put this up your bum?” That sentence should not have been as cute as it was.

“Pretty much. I have an app on my phone that can control the vibrations. You can even set it to pulsate in time with music.”

Now Owen’s laughing. “And there’s me thinking of giant wobbly rubber cocks and that’s about it.”

“Wanna try it?” I ask.

He thinks about it for a second, then shakes his head. “I’m too scared.” He laughs. “Plus I’ve got the old . . .” He flicks his eyes downwards. “But—and I can’t stress this enough—Ineedto watch you use it.”

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