Getting Him Back by K. A. Mitchell

down my body, flooding my dick.
    He shoved me back as hard as he’d kissed me, but there wasn’t a lot of space for me to go. My backpack hit the wall.
    He put a hand to his mouth. “I don’t need your fucking pity.”
    “Pity?” I grabbed his hand and put it on my crotch. “Pity doesn’t make my dick hard.”
    His fingers closed around me. Hot palm through denim, the ouch—damn it—rasp of my zipper. He made a tentative stroke, watching my face.
    I reached for him, found the hard shaft angling left from his fly. I smiled. “Well, there you go. You’re gay enough to get hard from kissing a guy and touching dick.”
    There was a half smile and his tongue appeared between his lips. Fuck, he was sexy like that. Almost shy under that punk-edgy hair. I never knew shy turned me on. It was still surprising when I looked at his eyes, but I’d gotten used to one hiding under the hair so it wasn’t as weird as it could have been.
    “What?” he said it like a challenge.
    I regretted staring since it had made his tongue retreat and told him the truth. Actually, I didn’t say anything, I backed him into the wall and started kissing him again. Hard, the way he liked it. The way I liked it. When your lips feel bruised against teeth and you can’t catch your breath because there’s a tongue deep in your mouth and there’s nothing to think about but him .
    Wyatt spread his legs and angled his hips against mine, our dicks making contact through our jeans. It felt so good I had to make it feel even better. I tugged at his button, worked his fly, and then he was in my hand, hot and satiny, pulsing and getting harder, thicker. He groaned into my mouth, fingers squeezing my dick.
    I swept my thumb over the crown, and the wetness of his precome made my jaw ache, made my knees get all loose. I got myself out as fast as I could, and rocked up into him. His dick felt sweet on mine, a tight drag, warm and silky and slick from the way he was dripping precome.
    Wyatt grabbed my ass with both hands as I thrust into him. His backpack had only been over one shoulder and it banged off our sides, echoing in the stairwell.
    The stairwell.
    Fuck. What the hell was I thinking?
    I wasn’t.
    I smelled sex and sweat and him. His mouth was inhaling mine, feeding my oral fetish while our naked dicks slid together in my hand. I couldn’t stop. Not if the whole soccer team trooped by to watch. His hand fumbled between us, covering mine, working around it. Perfect pressure everywhere. God, was that his nail in the spot under the ridge?
    My legs shook, and I tore my mouth free, getting a good mouthful of his sweatshirt to bury my gasps. He grunted almost soundlessly into my shoulder, but nothing could quite cover the thick, wet sound of our slam together.
    His sudden stillness warned me, and thank God, I could let go of the muscles I’d been using to hold off coming. He jerked and shot. A slippery string dropped over my knuckles, the smell of come sweet and bitter between us, and I fell over the edge with him. Pleasure shook me, wringing my balls dry until there was nothing left.
    I kissed his sweaty neck, then the soft curve of his ear and my lips found the tang of a barbell hidden by his hair. “Fuck.” I blew the word softly into his ear. “So good. God. I want to do that again. Wanna suck you.” It wasn’t only the sweet rush from coming making me say it. I wanted him. Wanted to see every inch of what was hidden under the sweatshirt. Wanted to taste his skin. His cock.
    Wyatt wasn’t much for afterglow. He jabbed an elbow into my ribs forcing me back far enough to give him room to fasten up his jeans. “Get off.”
    I couldn’t resist. “I did.” I smiled, despite the continued application of his elbow. “You did too.” I wiped my palm and fingers on the thing in my other hand. Right, the paper bag holding his sweatshirt had been between us. The tan color was streaked now with strips of dark brown from our come. “I don’t think I