Page 26 of Fire Me Up
“Let me taste you,” I murmured, ducking to lick at his exposed skin.
Gael nodded, breathing ragged as he raised his arms to give me access. I dragged my tongue across his chest—salt and skin—then zeroed in on a nipple. I took it between my teeth, gentle bite, soothing lick. His whole body shuddered; a broken moan escaped him.
“Sensitive,” I noted, filing it away. “I like that.”
I switched sides, my hands mapping him—abs, obliques, the sweep where back met ass. All muscle, all heat, all mine in this moment.
He braced his arms above his head, offering himself in a way that made my knees weak. I pressed my face into the warm hollow of his armpit, inhaled his clean, masculine scent, then tasted. Gael trembled.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, his free hand clutching at my back.
I grinned against his skin and explored with my tongue, cataloging the quicken of his breath, the way his hips pushed for friction. His fingers slid into my hair, holding me closer.
“More,” he demanded, voice rough. “Show me more.”
The bass thumped through the walls as I returned to his nipples, sucking one into my mouth while my hand pinched the other. Gael’s head tipped back, eyes shut, lips parted, soft sounds spilling out.
His cock strained against those shorts, a damp spot blooming. I pressed my thigh between his legs, gave him something to grind on, and he took it, movements growing frantic.
“Dylan,” he panted, eyes flying open to meet mine. “I need—I want
I knew exactly what he needed. What we both did.
“Bathroom,” I growled, grabbing his hand. “Now.”
We crashed through the door, still kissing, still groping like teenagers. The fluorescents buzzed harshly after the dim corridor, but I didn’t care. The room was empty. I dragged him to the largest stall at the end; the lock clicked and suddenly we were alone in a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two grown men desperate for each other.
I shoved him against the partition, pressed my whole body to his. “Is this okay?” I heard my voice—rough, wrecked.
“Fuck yes,” he said, hands dropping to grab my ass and pull me tighter.
Graffiti, distant bass, ugly lighting—far from the comforting setting I’d imagined for his first real gay encounter—but the urgency made it perfect. We couldn’t stop.
I ground against him, friction obscene and glorious. He turned, bracing his hands on the wall, pushing his ass back into me. Through his shorts I felt the perfect curve—firm, round, begging to be squeezed.
“Please,” he whimpered, so needy it sent heat through me. “Dylan, please.”
I reached around and palmed his cock through the fabric, groaning at how hard he was, how big. I’d suspected; feeling the thick outline against my hand was something else.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” I murmured into his neck, nipping gently.
His hips bucked; his breath broke into fast pants. “Need more. Need to feel you.”
I spun him to face me and kissed him hard as my fingers fumbled his button. He did the same to mine—clumsy, urgent. When I shoved his shorts over his hips, his cock sprang free and I froze, staring with undisguised hunger.
Gorgeous—thick and long, the head already slick. My mouth watered; my own cock throbbed painfully in my still-fastened jeans.
He noticed my staring and actually blushed, color spreading down his neck. “Is it… is it okay?”
“Okay?” I laughed, breathless. “Gael, you’re fucking perfect.”
I shoved my jeans down, freeing my cock. His eyes widened; his tongue darted to wet his lips. For a heartbeat we just stared, both breathing hard, both wrecked.
Then he reached and wrapped that big hand around me. My brain short-circuited. His grip—firm, not too tight, calloused heat—was perfect.
“Like this?” he asked, voice gone husky.
“Just like that,” I managed, hips jerking into his touch.
