Page 76 of One Last Try

I’ve been trying, and in fairness, I’m actually doing pretty great.

Compare this to the Owen of twenty years ago and I’m doing fucking fantastic. I haven’t proposed to him yet. Haven’t declared my eternal love for him. Haven’t imagined us moving in together.

That would be kind of fun, though. Waking up with him every morning. Going to his games on the weekend. Buying our groceries together. Slow Sunday sex, or quickies before work, and . . .

Ah shit. Guess I need to cross that one off now. Fucking damn it.

I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t fall in love with him. I won’t do it, Your Honour, you can’t make me.

But then he goes and says things like . ..

“Alexa, play sexy music.”

“Okay, playing music from your playlistSongs to Get Railed To,”a feminine, computerised voice says.

And it’s difficult—intensely, inordinately, achingly difficult—not to whisper those words inside my thoughts.

Don’t think them, Owen Patrick Bosley. Don’t you fucking dare.

Instead, I focus on the way his hot breath ripples over my skin, on the borderline painful way his fingers dig into the mounds of flesh over my hips, the desperate whimper he makes when he rolls his pelvis and the pressure catches exactly right on the head of his cock.

Actually, damn it, that might make it worse. The only thing I can think to do is to be rough with him. Treat it like a one-night deal. Like it’s the apocalypse and we’re both trying to get in one last fuck before the end of the world.

I push him off me, flip our positions so it’s him against the wall and my hips doing the pinning. I crush my mouth to his and shuck my shirt. One-handedly, I unbuckle my belt, undo my jeans.

The music filling the room is slow, bassy, dirty, raw. I don’t recognise the song, but in the back of my mind I know Mathias has curated this playlist from his collection of paid-for songs. Nope, nuh-uh, not letting that thought permeate. But damn, it’s cute, though.

Mathias reaches down into my boxers, and I step backwards. I can’t have him touch me before I fuck him. If my dick gets too much attention beforehand, I won’t last. I need to fuck him properly. Can’t risk it turning into lovemaking.

I cup my hand around his jaw and shove his head to the side. Partly to give me better access to his neck as I drag my tongue and teeth down it, over his collarbone, and work my way down his smooth bare chest. And partly because I cannot have him looking at me any longer. Not with that damn perfect face of his.

He’s not wearing boxers. I crumple to my knees and tug his sweatpants down only to find myself eye level with his cock. It’s fucking beautiful.Thick and long and fully erect. Attention seeking at its finest. Mathias wraps his fingers around it and pumps himself slowly.

“At some point, before you go home to Wales,” I say, the words barely escaping through panted breaths. “We need to recreate this. I need to be down here in this position. On my knees. Watching . . . you can finish on my face.”

Mathias directs his groan to the ceiling. He arches his back, runs his other hand up his body, and pinches his nipple. “Oh god, that would be so fucking hot.” He breathes through the moment, then looks at me, raises an eyebrow. It’s a look at that says,“We could do it now if you want?”

I shake my head, rub my hands up his thighs, and drag my thumb over his hole. He’s wearing a plug. “Next time. I’m not wasting all this prep.”

Again, I’m mentally telling myself it doesn’t mean anything. He’d have spent this much effort getting ready for any guy. It’s no big deal. It’s just Mathias, he’s a perfectionist, and he cares more than he should about what other people think. He’s not doing it especially for me.

I press against the base of the plug and his eyes roll closed.

“Right, Wild Card, on the bed.” I can’t handle much more. I need to be inside him.

Together we stumble to the bed, kicking off what’s left of our clothing. I have a lot more on than him, including my shoes and socks, but they’re off in no time and abandoned wherever they land. I don’t even spare them a second glance.

Mathias kisses me and climbs backwards onto the mattress. His kiss is still ferocious, urgent, desperate. It’s not a lovemaking kiss, it’s a “fuck me until I forget things” kiss. He lies back, pulling me with him.

“Don’t be gentle,” he huffs.

“I won’t. I promise.”

I can’t afford to be.

He reaches over to his bedside table and grabs a condom. “Front or behind?”

I’m going to regret this. It’s the stupidest, most costly mistake in the history of shockingly bad mistakes, but I still find myself saying, “Front. I need to watch you break.”

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