18. 18

18

Ant Decker

I don’t need to open my eyes to know I’m in deep shit. I’m almost entirely buried under a guy who’s decided to make me his mattress. And for some reason, I’m holding on to him tightly. I have both arms around him and my nose is pressed against his cheek. I whip my head back and let go the second I realize what I’ve been doing. I ease the arm under his neck out from under him slowly and carefully, taking care not to wake him. He mumbles softly in protest, but his eyes remain closed.

Thank fuck for that.

I make my way to the bathroom, dick leading the way. I’m hard. Rock-hard. Hard enough that I could easily use my dick as a weapon if that was socially acceptable.

Relax. It’s morning wood.

It’s definitely just morning wood.

I mean, yeah, sure, it’s a tiny bit of naked-Robbie-McGuire-in-my-bed wood, but it’s nothing to get worked up about .

My dick likes the way he looks, okay? There’s nothing I can do about that. It likes his body and the way he looks without any clothes on. It’s simple, really. I’m a gay man, and he’s a hot guy.

It’s not a big deal.

It’ll probably subside in a matter of minutes.

It doesn’t. The dull throb between my legs develops a pulse of its own, a heartbeat that demands attention. A deep pull that unsubtly suggests I get my ass back in bed with Robbie McGuire and wake him up by feeding him a nice big mouthful of meat.

Fuck.

My dick is into him. It’s really into him.

It likes how he smells.

And how he sounds.

It liked the way he moaned when I fucked him last night. It liked the noises he made. The breathy gasps. The tiny, hoarse cries.

Oof, it liked those a lot.

It liked the loud noises too. The ones he made into the palm of my hand. The ones that were so big and came from so low in his belly, I couldn’t contain them.

It liked how he came apart, trembling and shaking, ass fluttering around me as he said my name over and over.

Jesus. It really liked that .

I glance down at McGuire. He’s half on his side, half on his front. His face is squished into the pillow, hair in his face, lips cracked open, smile a little off-center. He should look a mess. He really should, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he looks angelic.

Angelic?

McGuire?

Get the fuck out of here with that kind of shit.

Wake up and sort yourself out.

I take an ice-cold shower and head back into the room with a towel around my waist because I forgot to bring my clothes into the bathroom.

McGuire has straightened himself out. He’s sitting up in bed with the sheets—my sheets—pooled in his lap and a mug of coffee in his hands. His lips are still swollen from sleep, but his eyes are laser-focused…on me.

It’s a searing green gaze that hits me right in the larynx and renders me unable to swallow. I breathe in through my nose as I try in vain to regain my composure.

He tilts his head toward the crumpled mess that’s his bed and says, “We’re doing that again.”

He says it like it’s a fact, not an opinion. Like it’s already been decided. Like it’s written in stone.

Like there’s not a goddamn thing I can do to stop it .

His gaze is uncomfortably intimate. Intolerable. His eyes are too much. Too hot. So hot that I can’t look directly at them, so I let my gaze track down his throat to the hollow between his clavicles, searching for a safe place to land. I mean to look down more, to focus on his nipples or abs because, as insane as it sounds, focusing on them seems like a better option than his face, but I can’t do that either. Something invisible has hooks in me. Deeply. My eyes travel upward, pausing briefly at his mouth. His perfect, plushy lips are still parted slightly. Still curled up a little. They curl up more from my attention.

“I know,” I croak eventually.

There’s no point in denying it. It’ll only make me look stupid later.

He looks pleased with himself, preening and giving me a little shake of his shoulders that makes his pecs flex. He’s infinitely smug and happy and sweet Jesus, I hate that.

“Just so you know, it’s casual,” I tell him. “This thing between us, it’s just fucking, okay? I’m not a relationship guy, and I’m not saying you are or anything. I just want to be super clear about who I am so we don’t get our wires crossed.”

His eyes darken and his bottom lip narrows till it’s little more than a dot. He raises his mug to his lips and takes a spiteful sip of coffee.

A fission of fear carves a hole in my sternum.

I know that look.

I’ve seen it before. I saw it when I told him he couldn’t blow me anymore, and just look how that turned out—I’m twenty grand in debt to this man, and his mouth is practically my dick’s holiday home.

“We’ll see about that,” he says.

He puts his cup down and throws the covers off himself.

Before I have time to fully recover from the shock of seeing a totally naked Robbie McGuire less than five feet from me, he gets up and strides toward the bathroom, stopping at the door to look at me accusingly and say, “What are you waiting for?” like I’m some kind of idiot.

“I, um…”

I’m finding things a little hard to follow, but fortunately, my dick is quick to explain. He wants to blow you, bruh. Stop being a pussy and get in there.

When you really think about it, who am I to argue with that kind of logic ?

I follow him into the bathroom and say, “You want to suck my cock, huh?” in a smarmy voice I’m not familiar with. “You want a piece of this, don’t you?”

As I say it, I catch a truly cringey glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I’m grinning manically and holding my boner in one hand like it’s a pet rodent or something. I look exactly like any one of a hundred problematic porn stars from the seventies or eighties.

I hate it.

I hate everything about what happens to me in this guy’s presence. Still, my pet rodent is heavily invested in his response.

“Nah, not right now.” He turns and looks over his shoulder at me, smiling beatifically. “Right now, I’m going to have a leisurely tug and you,”—he points a no-nonsense forefinger directly at my face so I’m left in no doubt whatsoever who he’s talking to—“ you’re going to eat my ass.”

And like that, I’m gone.

Gone.

I’m in the shower, water spraying into my face, with my towel still wrapped around me. I have one arm around his lower waist, holding him in place, and the other between his cheeks, soaping him up. I wash him fast, almost roughly, my hand sliding up and down his crack quickly. Dipping a finger into him and swiveling around before unhooking the spout and hosing him down. There’s nothing sensual about it. Only urgency. Only necessity. As soon as it’s done, I slither to the shower floor, knees landing heavily on the cool tile.

I don’t feel it at all.

Now, I’m one of those people who likes fucking. I really do. It’s not complicated. It feels good, so I enjoy it. I like fucking and getting my dick sucked. I like sucking dick and a lot of other things too. But the one thing I love, the thing that grinds my gears harder than anything else, is eating ass. It drives me fucking insane. Ass cheeks in my face. A hole spread open for me. A big hunk of man quivering and losing his mind on my tongue.

Yeah, put a fork in me ’cause I’m done.

Still, there are asses, and then there are asses . Simply put, McGuire’s ass is an ass . It’s the ass dreams are made of. Daydreams. Wet dreams. You name it. For me, at least, dreams are made of an ass like Robbie McGuire’s. A perfect peach. Juicy and ripe. A hard, muscle butt with just enough meat to make you want to sink your teeth into it.

I stay like that, kneeling behind him for a beat. A reverent moment where I sit back on my heels and take in the sight. The vast expanse of his skin is slick and shiny. Droplets of water glitter and gather on his lower back, merging together and forming tiny rivulets that run down the curve of his ass.

My hands float up, fingers spread, and I take a full handful of each one. I shake them gently, jiggling until he pouts at me and arches his back impatiently. My cock throbs. Looks like it might have a thing for impatience as well. It seems to like men who don’t have a clue what they’re doing but still somehow manage to be demanding as hell. I keep a firm grip on McGuire and spread my hands. His hole whirls into view. A pretty puckered star. A tight virgin hole I fucked open last night.

I fall on him, mashing my face into him and licking his bud like my life depends on it. I don’t tease him. I don’t make him wait. I don’t have the presence of mind for that. I just lap at his opening until his knees start to shake. The sounds he makes are out of this world. They’re guttural and raw. Sounds that exist only when someone has had layers and layers of their bullshit stripped away from them. When all that’s left is who and what they really are.

I alternate between a broad, soft tongue and one that’s flexed into a point. I circle his hole, laving his rim gently until he’s swearing and almost doubled over, scrabbling at the tiled wall in front of him as he shoves his ass in my face. When he does, I stiffen my tongue and drive it into him as deeply as possible. I don’t stop until he’s shouting, his hand moving up and down so fast in front of him it’s a blur. I hold his hips hard to stop him from wriggling out of my grip. My mouth is wide open, tongue fully extended, and I use the weight and momentum of my entire head to tongue-fuck him to climax. His ring flutters and clenches helplessly around my tongue. There’s a hard twitch and then a pause. Another twitch, harder this time, and this time, it comes on the back of a curse and a punitive groan.

There’s a subtle shiver in his spine.

A hard arch of muscle and bone.

A deep grasp that hollows out dents on the sides of his ass cheeks.

Then he throws his head back and my name ricochets off tile and glass.

By the time I’ve recovered, he’s dressed, packed, and ready to head to the lobby. He and a few of the guys have a press engagement. Some marketing shit, an interview or a photo shoot, something like that. The kind of thing people tend to leave me out of more often than not.

And thank fuck for that because I could use a little time on my own to regroup .

He drops his bags at the door and checks his pockets to ensure he has his phone and keys. When he’s satisfied his life is in order, he saunters over to me with a mild, non-threatening smile.

It scares the shit out of me.

I’m stooped over my bag, digging around for a pair of pants, but I quickly straighten and tuck the towel around my waist a little tighter.

He puts a hand on my chest. Lightly. So lightly, it feels insignificant. Like something he’s done many times in the past and fully intends to do many times in the future. That scares me too. He pushes himself onto his toes as I stand frozen and kisses me on the cheek. Soft, puffy lips stamp an invisible brand onto the hairless skin over my cheekbone.

“I can feel you when I move, Ant,” he whispers. “I can feel where you were last night and what you did to me. I can feel you when I walk… When I move my legs.” He kisses me again, this time on my neck. And this time, he chases the kiss with a slow stroke of his tongue along my earlobe. A rash of goosebumps erupts and spreads down one side of my body. “I’m going to feel where you were when I’m on the ice later,” he says it like a promise and a threat rolled into one. “And I want you to know that.”