Page 30 of Spread Your Wings
Mustafa laughed. “Yeah. Mine, too.”
They walked to the bathroom together, hand-in-hand. Sammy dealt with the condom as Mustafa tossed a washcloth into the sink. They spent far more time washing each other than they would have taken to wash themselves. They left the bathroom in each other’s arms, kissing. Their clean, hard cocks pressed against each other, eager for more.
Mustafa guided Sammy down onto the bed. He took his time reciprocating Sammy’s earlier attention, kissing and licking all over his naked body. Sammy nearly lifted off the bed when Mustafa’s mouth found the tip of his cock and sucked him in.
Mustafa’s mouth felt amazing, almost as wonderful as his tight hole. And oh God, when his fingers worked into Sammy’s ass, he nearly came. It had been so long since someone had paid any attention to his ass. Gavin had only played enough to work in his thin, pencil-dick. The cursory attention had often left Sammy sore and dissatisfied.
Mustafa took his time, working Sammy’s ring until he relaxed. Then he spread and stretched him with his fingers. When he’d teased in three fingers, he searched for Sammy’ssweet spot, the one that made him arch onto his shoulders from the pleasure.
“Fuck yeah. Right there.”
Mustafa wanted to fuck him face-to-face, but it was too much. Sammy turned away on his elbows and knees. Mustafa kissed along his shoulders as he suited up with a condom. Then, his cock was there, against Sammy’s entrance, hard and hot and so good. Sammy relaxed and let Mustafa in. He sighed when Mustafa grazed his prostate.
“Tell me how you like it.”
“Harder,” Sammy said.
Mustafa’s body slapped against his body. His balls smacked against Sammy’s balls, all soft skin and sweat and sex.
Sammy sank further into the mattress, legs and arms splayed. His ass rocked with Mustafa’s movements. His cock was trapped between the bed and his stomach, each touch bringing him closer to freedom from his old life. He needed this place to make himself anew, a man of sated desires. He bit down on the pillow, softening his hoarse shouts to muffled grunts. Mustafa maintained the rough, pounding rhythm. The world around them faded. Sammy no longer knew anything outside of his cries, the creak of the solid oak bed beneath them, and the slap of their bodies.
The wave of relentless bliss spread through Sammy’s abdomen. It washed away all other sensations. He came so hard, he saw bright flashes of light behind his closed eyelids. He collapsed onto the bed, Mustafa on top of him, a solid presence pressed to his back. Mustafa rolled them onto their sides, still connected, and kissed the back of his neck.
“Mustafa.”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Wow.”
“You’re a man of few words after sex,” Mustafa said. Laughter rumbled from his chest, more a feeling against Sammy’s back than a sound.
He snorted. “Only when it’s that fucking good.” Gavin had accused him of talking too much during sex. He’d often caught himself thinking about college assignments, or more recently, news stories, while they fucked. Sammy always had a challenging time staying in the moment with Gavin.
“You keep me here, tethered to your cock, fucking you,” he told Mustafa. “That’s fantastic.”
“Hmm.” Now, it was Mustafa’s turn to be speechless.
They took turns cleaning up the second time. The clock in the main room struck midnight as Sammy pulled on his pajama pants. They had a long day ahead. Sammy’s nerves kicked in again as Mustafa turned out the light, but he was too worn out to stay awake.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sammy lay awake in the dark bedroom. The clock in the main room woke him, but he’d only counted four before it stopped chiming. The sunlight streaming through the open door told a different story. It was well past four in the morning. Sammy knew he should get up and check the time. Mustafa’s arm held him fast, though. They’d made it to Easter Monday, April twentieth, the day of the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert. Sammy snuggled against Mustafa, pulling his arm tighter around him. He absently stroked the coarse hair on Mustafa’s arm, enjoying the texture so different from his own.
He must have dozed. Another chime on the clock registered the half-hour. He wiggled his way out from under Mustafa’s arm, and the warm covers. The chill air in the room raised goosebumps on his bare chest as he padded into the main room.
Ten thirty, the grandfather clock face read.
He scurried to the bathroom to fill the large tub.
A half-hour later, he’d refilled the tub. Still no activity from the bedroom.
“Mustafa, it’s eleven,” he said, shaking the big lump still tucked into the bed. “We’re meeting Bex at two.”
“Who’s Bex?”
“Another CNN correspondent and my mentor, stationed here in London. She bought the tickets.”
“Bex is good people in my book, then,”
