Page 25 of Jingle Bell Flock
“Been trying to get us there, but those little sounds you keep making …” I rocked forward so he could feel exactly what they did to me. “Maybe I should just fuck you right here.”
His eyes fluttered closed. “You wouldn’t hear me complain.”
“Lube,” I reminded him, my voice rough with desire. “We need lube.” I pushed off from the wall, carrying him the rest of the way down the hall while he kissed along my jaw, my neck, anywhere he could reach.
The sheets were still rumpled from earlier. I laid him down and caught his mouth again, my palm sliding up to cradle the side of his throat. A shiver ran through him as I held his gaze and traced the flutter of his pulse with my thumb.
I unbuttoned his flannel slow enough to make him swear under his breath, then hauled his T-shirt over his head, revealing those stupid, perfect freckles across his chest and shoulders. The ones I’d once mapped with my lips and tongue until I thought I knew them better than my own face.
I climbed over him, catching his wrists and pinning them above his head with one hand. “Look at you, so pretty and needy.” I leaned down, nipping at his neck.
Harrison arched under me, a soft moan escaping his lips.
I released his wrists and trailed my fingers down his chest, my thumbs brushing over his nipples until they pebbled. He gasped, squirming as I hooked my fingers into his waistband and yanked the boxers off. His cock sprang free, thick and leaking at the tip. I wrapped my hand around it, stroking slowly and watching his face twist in pleasure.
“Jeremy,” he breathed out, his hips bucking into my grip. “I need you.”
No way was I rushing this. “I want to take my time with you.” I pressed a kiss to his hipbone. “Make it last.”
I grabbed the lube from his nightstand and slicked my fingers. “Spread your legs,” I ordered, nudging his thighs apart.
He drew his knees up, exposing his tight, perfect hole. Of course, he was waxed, I thought, circling it with one slick finger, teasing the rim before pressing in slowly, feeling the ring of muscle give as I pushed inside. He tensed at first, then relaxed, a low whine building in his throat as I worked my finger deeper, crooking it to brush that sensitive spot deep inside, and he melted.
“That’s it,” I murmured, pumping in and out, watching his cock twitch against his stomach.
I added a second digit, making him gasp. I scissored my fingers, twisting to loosen him up further. His breath came in pants, his chest rising and falling rapidly, sweat beading on his forehead, a deep flush working its way up from his chest.
“Feels so good,” he groaned, rocking back onto my hand.
I leaned in, capturing his mouth in a messy kiss, our tongues tangling as I added a third finger, stretching him wide, the burn making him clench.
“Christ, look at you, Harry.”
Harrison gripped the sheets, his head thrown back, his composure cracking.
I worked him like that for what felt like ages, my fingers thrusting deep and curling against his prostate until he was a writhing mess, pre-cum pooling on his abs.
“Please,” he begged, his voice hoarse, his nails raking down my arms. “Need you inside me.”
I withdrew my fingers with a slick pop, his hole gaping slightly, begging to be filled.
I stood briefly to strip my clothes off. My cock slapped against my stomach, heavy and hard. I slicked it up, my hand gliding over its length as pre-cum beaded at the slit. I groaned in relief at the friction.
I positioned myself between his thighs, hooking one of his legs over my shoulder for better access. “You ready?” I asked, lining up, the head of my cock nudging his entrance.
He nodded frantically.
I pushed in slowly, the tight heat of his ass enveloping me inch by inch. I let out a long, slow exhale when I finally bottomed out, my balls pressed against him.
Harrison cried out as he adjusted to the fullness, his eyes hazy and desperate and locked on mine. For a second, neither of us moved—just stayed there, connected, remembering.
This was us. This was what we’d lost. What we were finding again.
He nodded, and I started moving, shallow thrusts at first, pulling out halfway and sliding back in, building the rhythm. His moans grew louder with each snap of my hips, the bed creaking under us.
“Harder,” he urged, and I gave it to him, pounding deeper, the slap of skin echoing off the walls. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
Sweat dripped down my back, my hands gripping his thighs hard enough to bruise, holding him open as I drove into him. My hand slid up his chest, fingers closing around his throat—not squeezing, just holding. Claiming. His pulse hammered against my palm.
