by Rachel Ember
When Jay and Emile’s eyes met through the glass, Jay grinned automatically, at least half of his doubts vanishing.
Emile smiled back, and then ducked his head and opened the unlocked door. Godot slipped past him to stand between him and Emile, his head tipped back and his long, feathered tail wagging slowly.
“Hi, buddy,” Jay said, stroking his soft ears with both hands—an impulse that he couldn’t stop when Godot was within reach. “You still need a walk?”
“Don’t listen to him when he says ‘yes,’” Emile said with quiet amusement. “I already took him out.”
Jay grinned up at Emile, still bent over to pet Godot, and their eyes locked. Jay’s stomach lurched, and his whole body tingled in anticipation. Emile’s color rose, as though he felt something similar.
In casual clothes, Jay could see more of the shape of Emile’s body, with the near-sharpness of his shoulders tapering to a slender waist, and the fabric of the trousers—were they corduroy?—molding nicely to his lean thighs.
Jay straightened up from petting Godot, gently nudged the dog out of the way, and slid his hands around Emile’s waist. He felt so good under Jay’s hands, and to Jay’s gratification, he shuddered in pleasure at Jay’s touch. Jay hooked his thumbs in the hem of the Henley, pushing it up so that he could slide his palms over Emile’s bare skin, his thumbs grazing the trail of dark hair running past Emile’s navel. Emile inhaled shakily, and Jay was awash with the desire to pin him down, pull off his shirt, and lick all of the places his hands had touched.
He slid his index fingers into the belt loops of the snug corduroy pants and used them to tug their hips together, and then he kissed Emile, taking his time even though he was still battling the compulsion to just rut against Emile’s warm, hard angles until he came. When Jay slipped his tongue past Emile’s teeth and Emile groaned into his mouth, Jay imagined that instead of his tongue sliding against Emile’s, it was his cock. At the thought, his whole body turned fever-hot.
“Bedroom?” Emile murmured against Jay’s chin.
“Yes,” Jay managed, voice strangled, and he followed Emile through the house, conscious of his hard cock, heavy in his jeans.
Emile’s bedroom was like the rest of the house; warm but spare, tasteful, and dominated by large windows that looked over the rear of the lot and a wall of trees. He turned back to Jay, and Jay pulled him close once more and bent his head to kiss him.
Emile gently caught Jay’s wrist. For a moment, Jay’s thoughts faltered at the idea that Emile was going to pull Jay’s hand out from under his shirt. Had he gone too far, too fast? But then Emile pressed his palm against the back of Jay’s, their fingers slotting together, and slipped their joined hands down the back of his trousers and past the stretchy hem of a pair of silky underwear. Jay’s balls seized and his brain short-circuited when Emile looked up at him through those sinful black eyelashes and said, “I got myself ready.”
Jay made a strangled sound that probably wasn’t very sexy as his hand dove deeper into Emile’s underwear, over the warm curve of his ass, so that his forefinger found Emile’s hot, slick rim.
“God,” he groaned, resting his forehead against Emile’s and pushing his fingertip against the slippery, but still resistant ring of muscle until it slid inside. Emile let out a little whimper and clenched around his finger—and Jay abruptly realized that he truly was about to explode in his jeans. He sank his teeth into his lip to feel the grounding sting of split skin and tasted a trace of copper, and then he curled his finger, exploring the smooth, firm walls inside Emile’s ass. “That’s so good, baby,” he breathed, almost unaware of what he was saying.
“So you can do whatever you want to me,” Emile went on against Jay’s ear, his voice very quiet and with a tremor in it, like he was trusting Jay with a precious secret. He removed the hand that he’d wound behind his back to guide Jay into his pants, and he twined both of his arms around Jay’s neck. “Anything,” he added, his mouth so close to Jay’s ear that his beard grazed Jay’s neck as he spoke.
Jay felt like Emile was built of flame, and that everywhere they were in contact, the fire was spreading to Jay and lighting him up, unstoppable. He was going to come. And there was something paralyzing about what Emile had said—anything. There was so much Jay wanted, and yet none of it could be broken down and ordered into a series of single acts. He wanted to pour oil onto the conflagration of holding Emile, and burn. He wanted to draw his name into Emile’s heart and ensure that he was held forever in Emile’s thoughts.
I think I read too much poetry, he thought vaguely as he fought the urge to pull Emile tight against him with the hand that was still palming his ass, and rub against him through his jeans for the second or two it would take for Jay to come.
But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t act like a desperate virgin. That wasn’t what Emile wanted. Jay knew that; Emile had told him, during the silent conversation they’d been having, every look and action underlying the spoken words they’d exchanged since they’d met at the bar. It was a version of what Bria had revealed to him and the internet had expounded upon: Emile needed Jay to be not just a lover, but a Dom. Jay needed it, too, even if he wasn’t sure he knew how to go about doing it.
He was pretty sure, though, that dry humping himself to completion while his finger was buried in Emile’s ass was the wrong move, no matter how good an idea it seemed like at the moment. And if he was going to stop himself from doing that, he had to get at least a few inches of distance. Now.
Swallowing, Jay pulled out his finger, and he realized he must have done it too quickly when Emile hissed.
“Sorry,” Jay said without thinking, and then he bit his lip as he shuffled back a step, his hands on Emile’s waist again and a handspan of distance between their hips and chests.
“S’okay,” Emile murmured, blinking down at the space between them as if the distance concerned him more than Jay’s inexpert handling. “Is there… is something wrong?”
The confidence that had carried him up the driveway slipped through Jay’s fingers, and the anxiety that had preceded it returned.
Emile was watching him carefully, and he seemed to discern something from Jay’s expression. His troubled frown turned into a small smile, and he reached behind his back to take Jay’s hand again.
“Come on,” he said, tugging Jay toward the bed. Jay followed him, remembering the way that he’d been led in Laramie’s—Emile’s gentle grip, and the rightness of it. But now his stomach twisted and his skin prickled uncomfortably. Emile sat on the edge, and Jay sat next to him.
Emile moved as though to pull his hand away, but when Jay tightened his grip, Emile relaxed into the pressure, letting their joined hands rest on Jay’s thigh. “We don’t have to do anything, if you’ve changed your mind.”
Jay pushed the hand that wasn’t clasped in Emile’s through his hair. “I haven’t changed my mind. But I don’t want to mess this up.” He stole a look at Emile. “And I’m already messing it up, aren’t I?”
A small wrinkle appeared between Emile’s lush, perfect eyebrows. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m supposed to… lead.” Jay cleared his throat. “I mean, take control. That’s what you like,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. This much, he knew.
Emile’s skin was so beautiful when he blushed. Like sherry in a glass tumbler, which Jay had once seen his father drink at a dinner party, where he’d been briefly mesmerized by the muted glow.
“I hope it’s what we both like,” Emile said with a wry smile, and Jay snorted and nodded in confirmation. Emile squeezed his hand. “Things can’t always be perfect between two people. Especially not at the start.” He looked down at their joined hands. “And because so far they, frankly, have been perfect between us, maybe we were overdue for a moment where they aren’t.”
The reassurance eased Jay a little, but he still felt taut with frustration and nerves. “I guess that’s true.” All Jay’s encounters before Emile had d
efinitely had their moments of awkwardness… and some of them had been almost entirely uncomfortable, punctuated by a few seconds of hard-earned pleasure at the end. “I want to be perfect for you, though.” He sounded more petulant than he would have liked.
Emile grinned. “Of course, you do. But you’re only—that is, you’re nineteen. I don’t expect you to know everything, or to always be sure.”
Jay felt a flare of pain in his chest, remembering his earlier wish that he’d met Emile as some older, more suave version of himself, who knew how to tie people up and make them beg for pain and pleasure.
“But the thing about—well, me,” Emile said, speaking in a low tone like he had when his lips had been against Jay’s ear by the door, “is that all it really takes to please me is for me to know that I’ve pleased you.” He slowly wet his lower lip, still looking at his hand in Jay’s. “So, you only need to know what you want, and tell me to do it. And that will please us both.”
Emile’s words sank into Jay, and through their joined hands, Jay became sure he felt a pulse pounding between them in a single, synced heartbeat. He was riveted by the sight of Emile’s lower lip, wet where his tongue had swiped across it a moment before.
Emile looked up at him, his eyes dark and warm. “Trust yourself.”
You only need to know what you want… and that will please us both, he’d said. Trust yourself.
Jay let the tension in his back and shoulders uncoil, which eased him into a straighter posture. He let go of Emile’s hand and said, “Get down on your knees.”
Emile slid to the floor so quickly that his knees hit the carpet with a dull thud. His eyes were wide on Jay’s, his perfect mouth slightly open. Jay spread his legs and patted his thigh, staring while Emile shuffled on his knees into the space between Jay’s Nikes. Emile let his hands rest flat against his own thighs, not touching Jay, but Jay could feel the warmth of his proximity through his clothes.
Jay put his hand on the side of Emile’s head and then let it trail down through his hair, stroking him, touching what he’d wanted to touch since the moment they’d met. With his other hand, he unbuttoned his fly. “You want me to tell you what I want?” he asked, almost casually. He already knew the answer, but he’d like hearing it out loud.
Emile’s nostrils flared and his eyelids looked heavy. “Yes, please,” he all but whispered. Jay pulled himself out of his briefs, bracing against the floor so that he could lift his lips a bit and hitch his unfastened jeans lower, giving himself room. Emile didn’t try to hide his stare, his gaze trained on Jay’s erection, hard and burning in his hand.
“I want your mouth,” Jay said huskily, twining his fingers in the long ends of Emile’s hair, and then twisting until he felt the pull against Emile’s scalp. “I want to fuck you there.”
Emile whimpered, and Jay almost came undone again at the sound. He held his shaft tightly in one hand and started to tug Emile toward him with the other. But before he could apply anything but the suggestion of pressure, Emile was already bending toward him, his hands resting lightly on Jay’s knees for balance. When Emile’s mouth was a half-inch away from his cock, some strange urge made Jay tighten his grip on Emile’s hair, holding him away.
“Not yet,” Jay said, his low voice as quiet as Emile’s whisper, and while Emile sagged his head against what had to be the sharp sting of his pulled hair, Jay lowered him just enough that the flat of his tongue grazed Jay’s swollen crown. Guiding Emile’s mouth by his hair, Jay hissed as Emile’s tongue rubbed against his shaft in slow, lazy strokes.
Emile’s tongue felt just as soft and plush on Jay’s intimate skin as it had been against his lips. The puffs of warm breath on his shaft were an exquisite, subtle torture, and the feel of Emile straining against Jay’s grip on his hair was—it was all so much. A wildfire reignited between them. Once again, Jay was on the brink of orgasm. He blinked hard and paused, exhaling, to compose himself.
“I could come from this,” he confessed wryly, not sure what gave him the urge to speak, but trusting it anyway, just like Emile had told him to. “Your beautiful face, your hot fucking tongue. This—fucking hair.” He gave his hand a little twist for emphasis, and Emile keened. “You’re so hot and smart and—I just want to wreck you.” It was a little frightening how true this was.
“I’ve been thinking of you fucking me since the night we met,” Emile said softly, the filthy words somehow sounding delicate in his low, melodious voice. “I want it, too. Want you to wreck me. So much.”
Jay remembered the feel of Emile’s hole around his finger and knew he wouldn’t survive his mouth long enough to get there. He was going to come fast, wherever he managed to get inside Emile. And he wanted to fuck Emile, really fuck him, before that. So, he had to be careful.
“Then I’d better fuck you.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Get up here.”
Emile groaned and got to his feet, and Jay felt a rush of something a lot like gratitude at the sight of a bulge in his fitted corduroy pants.
“Wait,” Jay said before he could step toward the side of the bed. “Take off your clothes first.” He stood up and wriggled the rest of the way out of his jeans, grinning when Emile stared at his spit-slicked cock. “I want to see you.”
Emile’s throat bobbed with his swallow, his eyes bright and wide as if the command had made him nervous, but he still didn’t hesitate, first shedding his Henley in a smooth pull over his head, further ruffling his pulled hair. Then, he tried to smooth his hair back into place with both of his hands and peered at Jay a little shyly—while Jay drank in the sight of his upper body.
Emile rode his bike a lot, Jay knew, and it was obvious from the lean muscle he wore from head to toe that he kept himself pretty active, particularly for someone whose job mostly involved reading and talking. He was more slender than muscled, though, and the same dark, soft hair that grew on his face was on his chest, too; neatly groomed, but abundant. A rough noise escaped Jay as he ran his palms from Emile’s collarbones to his navel. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed him quickly, because he couldn’t help it, and then stepped back and folded his arms. “Now, the rest.”
Emile shed his corduroys, shimmying them down partway before he hooked the black briefs he was wearing, which looked as silky as they’d felt, and pushed them down, too. His hips were narrow, and his lean thighs were more lightly furred than his chest. His legs flexed with ropy muscle as he stepped out of his pants and underwear. His cock was beautifully proportionate to his slim, compact body, slightly curved, and it had a deep purplish color that made Jay think, his mouth watering a little, of fruit. Between his thighs, his balls hung heavy and delightfully hairy, though the hair there was tidy, like the rest of Emile’s trimmed body hair.
Jay had never even imagined anyone could look so perfect. “Beautiful,” Jay repeated, wishing he could be better with words.
Emile took a half-step sideways and reached into the drawer of his nightstand, and then wordlessly held out a condom and a small bottle of lube. Jay caught his lip in his teeth and took them before he tilted his head toward the bed in silent instruction, shuddering as he pulled off his own shirt.
Jay grinned again when Emile blinked at the sight of his chest. He knew that he looked pretty good without clothes on—a happy side effect of genetics and daily physical exertion. He shook his hair back out of his eyes and stepped in behind him as Emile stepped forward. Jay couldn’t keep his hands from stroking Emile’s sides and then, as he kneed up onto the bed, skimming over his ass and the backs of his thighs, too.
Emile looked over his shoulder, his lips parted and his hair in his eyes, and Jay hoped he’d never forget the sight of him, displayed and beautiful. “How do you want me?”
Jay found he couldn’t speak to answer, so he just followed Emile up onto the bed and ran a hand up his back, pushing firmly. With a little rush of exhaled breath, Emile sank down onto his elbows, which raised his amazing little ass up in front of Jay like an offering.
He w
as leaking; a drop of precum left a wet mark on the sheets between his knees. Again, Jay felt reverent and humbled; like other people might feel in church, or after a promotion they weren’t sure they’d earned—like a higher power had been generous with him, beyond measure. Reverent, he ran his palms up Emile’s calves where they bracketed Jay’s knees, and then bent and kissed the small of his back and the crack of his ass, feeling the whisper of soft body hair in his crease, so fair in that spot that it was almost invisible.
Jay opened the condom and rolled it on with shaking hands. He clutched Emile’s hips, rubbing his thumbs against the firm, warm flesh of his lower back, and kissed him there again, moving his hands to spread his cheeks and opening him up for tentative kisses that quickly grew bolder. Emile smelled good here, musky, and the lube wasn’t as cloying on the tip of his tongue as Jay had thought it might be.
He hoped this act didn’t require excessive skill to make the recipient feel good; he’d never rimmed anyone before, but he followed Emile’s earlier instructions and did what pleased him. He explored the changing texture of the skin under his tongue, lapping from Emile’s furry balls to his prepared hole and back again, all while clutching the base of his own, condom-sheathed cock to control himself.
When he couldn’t wait any longer, he lifted himself up, panting, and splayed his left hand over Emile’s trembling back while, with his right hand, he smeared lube on his condom-sheathed shaft and then lined himself up.
He’d been right to think he wouldn’t last long, but judging by how Emile exclaimed as Jay pressed his length inside—his hole so tight and yet so receptive, like his body was hungry for Jay, drawing him in—Emile wasn’t going to last long, either. When Jay was inside, he put his forehead against the back of Emile’s bowed neck and wrapped his arms around his chest, melding them together as he gently rocked and sparks of ecstasy shot through him. He had thought before that Emile was a flame and that to hold him would be to set himself alight, too, and he’d been right; he felt incendiary, made of stoked coals and dry tinder, and Jay could have sobbed with the combustive need that was pouring through them.
