sound of a drawer opening and closing somewhere in the flat, and then Michael was back, a panther-like darkness cut out of the doorway. John could see only the glimmer of his eyes, catching amber from the streetlights. “This gonna be it, then?” he asked hoarsely. “Here in the kitchen?”
“Yes,” Michael said. His voice was bleak. “Right here.”
John could have stopped him. A word would have done it. Less—this was Michael, who knew he had an itch before he reached to scratch it. Michael of a thousand dangerous city days. He could have read a muscle twitch in John that said he wasn’t ready to be fucked facedown across his kitchen table.
John knew this. And yet for a few bitter seconds he also knew he would regret trying him—knew he had better keep any protests or twitches to himself. Pain lanced through him, even while he squirmed out of his jeans, letting those and his briefs be roughly yanked down round his thighs. What had he expected—hearts and flowers?
Yes. At least those. This was Michael, who had wept to think that he was dead.
Michael’s fingers, lube-soaked, found the entrance to his body. John’s mind went gloriously blank. “Oh yes ,” he whispered. Two fingers, hot and strong, broached his rim, and he stretched out on the table’s cool oak surface, groaning. The pressure inside him mounted, then withdrew a little. Knuckles caressed his anus from the inside in a circling motion that pulled a wail of pleasure from him. He clenched on the intrusion, writhing. “Mike, you bastard…” More lube, a third finger, and a reach inside that woke his prostate.
He shoved up onto his elbows. His body was beginning preorgasmic cramps, hot contractions in his balls and the root of his cock where it was painfully trapped. He could resist them for a while, but once the deeper rhythm started, he would be lost. In another world, he’d have Michael do him like this, put his hand up there and fist him unconscious, but now he knew he’d better court his fate before it overtook him uninvited. He could feel Michael’s shaft pushing hard against his arse. “Don’t make me come like this. Fuck me.”
Rubber. Flinging a hand back to welcome and guide him—Christ, not that he needed either—John’s fingers brushed the steel-cold buttons of Michael’s open fly and then a length of condom-sheathed cock. Already it was burrowing into his body. Snatching his hand away, he slammed it to the table’s surface. God, he was big! Shuddering, fists clenching and flattening, John heaved back against him. He wouldn’t have asked him to wear a condom. Somehow, stupidly, hadn’t expected him to put one on unasked. Why? Michael wasn’t a saint. And if things had been the other way round, John might have wanted—Michael thrust hard, and the thought disintegrated in John’s mind, patching itself back together in rags—he’d have wanted to wear three of the damn things, with his track record…
Another thrust, this one big enough to slam John flat, impaled. He felt a new depth in him open. His mouth stretched soundlessly. To his ecstasy and desolation, Mike clenched a fist in his hair, yanking his head back, and without another second’s warning, John came, shooting his load violently against the table’s edge.
He hadn’t meant to. It had felt like detonation, not a climax. Sucking breath back into his lungs, he fought to brace up, not to melt into inertia as Michael took serious hold of him and began to fuck him hard. He didn’t know John had gone over, did he? And John couldn’t tell him—for want of breath, partly, and out of shame too, for bursting like a randy kid so soon. At least Michael’s arms were around him now, the cable-cord muscle tight across his belly and over his chest. The shove of his hips, the hot tight friction of his body, sent flowers of pain blooming up and down John’s bruised spine, but to be held like this—yes, that was some part of how he’d dreamed it. The embrace would
“Yes,” Michael said. His voice was bleak. “Right here.”
John could have stopped him. A word would have done it. Less—this was Michael, who knew he had an itch before he reached to scratch it. Michael of a thousand dangerous city days. He could have read a muscle twitch in John that said he wasn’t ready to be fucked facedown across his kitchen table.
John knew this. And yet for a few bitter seconds he also knew he would regret trying him—knew he had better keep any protests or twitches to himself. Pain lanced through him, even while he squirmed out of his jeans, letting those and his briefs be roughly yanked down round his thighs. What had he expected—hearts and flowers?
Yes. At least those. This was Michael, who had wept to think that he was dead.
Michael’s fingers, lube-soaked, found the entrance to his body. John’s mind went gloriously blank. “Oh yes ,” he whispered. Two fingers, hot and strong, broached his rim, and he stretched out on the table’s cool oak surface, groaning. The pressure inside him mounted, then withdrew a little. Knuckles caressed his anus from the inside in a circling motion that pulled a wail of pleasure from him. He clenched on the intrusion, writhing. “Mike, you bastard…” More lube, a third finger, and a reach inside that woke his prostate.
He shoved up onto his elbows. His body was beginning preorgasmic cramps, hot contractions in his balls and the root of his cock where it was painfully trapped. He could resist them for a while, but once the deeper rhythm started, he would be lost. In another world, he’d have Michael do him like this, put his hand up there and fist him unconscious, but now he knew he’d better court his fate before it overtook him uninvited. He could feel Michael’s shaft pushing hard against his arse. “Don’t make me come like this. Fuck me.”
Rubber. Flinging a hand back to welcome and guide him—Christ, not that he needed either—John’s fingers brushed the steel-cold buttons of Michael’s open fly and then a length of condom-sheathed cock. Already it was burrowing into his body. Snatching his hand away, he slammed it to the table’s surface. God, he was big! Shuddering, fists clenching and flattening, John heaved back against him. He wouldn’t have asked him to wear a condom. Somehow, stupidly, hadn’t expected him to put one on unasked. Why? Michael wasn’t a saint. And if things had been the other way round, John might have wanted—Michael thrust hard, and the thought disintegrated in John’s mind, patching itself back together in rags—he’d have wanted to wear three of the damn things, with his track record…
Another thrust, this one big enough to slam John flat, impaled. He felt a new depth in him open. His mouth stretched soundlessly. To his ecstasy and desolation, Mike clenched a fist in his hair, yanking his head back, and without another second’s warning, John came, shooting his load violently against the table’s edge.
He hadn’t meant to. It had felt like detonation, not a climax. Sucking breath back into his lungs, he fought to brace up, not to melt into inertia as Michael took serious hold of him and began to fuck him hard. He didn’t know John had gone over, did he? And John couldn’t tell him—for want of breath, partly, and out of shame too, for bursting like a randy kid so soon. At least Michael’s arms were around him now, the cable-cord muscle tight across his belly and over his chest. The shove of his hips, the hot tight friction of his body, sent flowers of pain blooming up and down John’s bruised spine, but to be held like this—yes, that was some part of how he’d dreamed it. The embrace would
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