Page 121 of Shut Up and Score
When we finally break for air, foreheads pressed together, he whispers, “I’m not stopping. You can push me away a hundred times, Micah, and I’ll still want you.”
I should tell him to leave. I should say this is a mistake. Instead, I crush my mouth to his again and drag him inside, the door slamming shut behind us.
His back hits the door with a thud as I push him against it, my hands already in his shirt. Colton’s mouth is on mine again, hot and desperate, teeth catching on my lower lip. I groan into him as he bites it, clutching at his hips as though I need to anchor myself to something solid. His fingers are everywhere—tangled in my hair, skimming my jaw, sliding under my shirt to rake over my stomach.
“Fuck,” I gasp against his mouth, stumbling us backward until the back of my knees hit the bed. We fall onto it in a tangle, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I can feel every line of him, hard and hungry, and it shoots straight through me.
Colton doesn’t hesitate this time. He straddles my waist, grinding down, and my vision blurs. He pulls my shirt over my head and throws it somewhere, his hands roaming over my body, memorizing me with his touch. I grip his ass through his sweats and drag him harder against me, and he chokes on a moan.
We’re a mess of hands and mouths and raw need. He kisses like he’s drowning and I’m air, and I can’t get enough. My palms slide under his shirt, over the smooth planes of his back, and I yank it off, needing him bare against me.
Skin to skin, it’s over. My fingers splay against the small of his back, pressing him into me, feeling the subtle twitch of muscle under my touch. He arches up instinctively, and I groan against his mouth, because God, he fits against me as though we were carved out to line up this way.
I roll us, pressing him into the mattress, and he goes willingly, gasping as my weight pins him down. His legs fall open, his hands gripping my shoulders. I trail my lips down his throat, tasting salt and heat, letting my tongue linger at the hollow above his collarbone. He shivers, and I nip lightly, just to feel the way his breath hitches.
“Micah…” His voice is wrecked, desperate, and it does something to me I can’t even name.
“Shh,” I murmur against his skin, dragging my teeth lightly along his shoulder before sucking a mark there. His fingers fist in my hair, tugging me closer, his hips tilting up as if he can’t help himself.
I take my time, letting my hands roam—over his chest, circling his nipples just to watch him twitch, then sliding down his stomach to where he’s already hard and straining against his sweats. I palm him over the fabric, slow and deliberate, and his whole body bows off the bed.
“Fuck—” He bites his lip, eyes squeezed shut.
“You’re so sensitive,” I whisper, leaning up to kiss him again, swallowing the soft noise he makes when I rub him harder through the cotton. His hands are everywhere now—my hair, my shoulders, sliding down my sides.
I pull back just long enough to strip him the rest of the way, my mouth watering at the sight of him spread out beneath me. Flushed, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. Mine.
I lean down, kissing a slow path from his throat down his chest, letting my tongue circle his nipple until he shudders and gasps my name. Then lower—over the ridges of his abs, down to the sharp cut of his hips. He’s trembling, fisting the sheets as though he’s trying to keep it together, and it makes me grin against his skin.
When I finally take him in my hand, he jerks, cursing under his breath. I stroke him slowly, lazily, drinking in every sound, every twitch of his muscles. His thighs spread wider, inviting me in, and I slide my other hand up to cup the back of his knee, pushing his leg open just a little more.
“You enjoy this, huh?” My voice is rough as gravel.
“Yeah,” he gasps, eyes glazed and glassy. “Yeah—God, Micah…”
I keep him there, teetering on the edge, until he’s begging without words, hips rolling up into my grip. My own cock is aching, trapped against my sweats, but I don’t care—I want him craving everything I give him first.
When I finally let go to grab the lube and condoms from the nightstand, he’s watching me with lips parted, chest heaving, and his fingers fisting the sheets as if he’s not sure if he wants to beg or bolt.
“I want to be inside of you, will you let me fuck you again? Or are you too sore?” I murmur, my thumb brushing over his hipbone as I lean down again, kissing the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathes, voice breaking on the single syllable.
And that’s all I need.
I tear open the condom with shaking hands, my chest tight,my cock aching. The slick pop of the cap on the lube is loud in the quiet room.
“Breathe for me,” I murmur, leaning down to kiss him, slow and deep, while my fingers slide lower. He gasps when I touch him, when the cool slick hits his heat. I circle once, twice, letting him feel the pressure, letting his body adjust to the idea of me.
His hand clamps around my bicep, trembling. “Micah…”
“I got you,” I promise, kissing the corner of his mouth, then sliding a finger into him, slow but sure. His breath stutters, back arching off the mattress. I keep moving, gentle but relentless, and it only takes a minute before he’s moaning for real, rocking into my hand like he can’t stop himself.
“More,” he gasps, and I swear my cock twitches hard enough to hurt. I give him another finger, scissoring them carefully, watching his face twist with pleasure and need. He’s so damn beautiful like this—flushed, undone, mine.
When I finally shed the rest of my clothing before rolling the condom on and lining up, his thighs shake around my hips.
“Look at me,” I rasp, voice breaking with how much I want this.
