Malcolm looked longingly at Owen’s ass—taut, lean, clenched lightly in anticipation—and thought of all the things he’d like to do to it. God, so much kink, so little time. Between that and the memory of Owen inside him, face–to-face like the night before, he wasn’t sure he could last.
He wanted to come with Owen inside him again.
He smacked Owen’s rear experimentally, and his palm tingled, still a little sensitive from the night before.
“Stay right there,” he said, and walked around the bed to the toy drawer.
He looked over the bed, aware that Owen’s challenging, ironic gaze was fastened on his every move, and sighed as he pulled out a short leather crop. He gave it a few experimental, whistling passes, and winked at Owen’s rather large eyes, clear even in the darkness.
“You think so?” Owen asked doubtfully.
“I think you’ll like it better than my hand,” Malcolm said, and then, trying not to sound too anxious, “Trust me?”
Owen blinked, and Malcolm’s heart stalled. “Okay,” he drawled, obviously with reservations.
Malcolm nodded. “I’ll make it good, I swear.”
And then he saw the dildo, and smiled. He pulled it out with a couple of condoms and lubricant to boot, and then the leather cock ring too. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
“Ahem.”
Malcolm was pulled out of his happy musings by Owen’s glare.
“I don’t mean to rain on your big toy parade,” Owen said, “but I usually go more . . . au natural.” He mangled the French pronunciation, which really only made him more dear.
Malcolm held back a frustrated sigh. “Which one offends you?”
Owen rolled his eyes. “C’mere and spank me, dammit—you do not want me to get off this bed and make you.”
Malcolm turned around and glared back. “I will spank you in my own good time.” A tiny, evil smile formed at the corner of his lips. “Besides . . . I think it would do you good to play with toys—isn’t that part of every good boy’s education?”
Owen was still frowning, but his mouth was pursed so he wasn’t talking, and that was an improvement.
Malcolm made his way back around the bed and set up all his little diversions on the towel. First he drizzled some lube on the dildo, and without ceremony parted Owen’s cheeks and thrust in.
“Hello!” Owen gasped, probably from both the cold and the invasion. “Don’t we usually get a little introduction for this?”
“Sometimes,” Malcolm breathed, feeling the heavy, heady ache in his groin just from watching Owen’s backside swallow the thing, reluctantly but smoothly, from hearing the hitch in his breathing and watching the way his back muscles bunched tight. “Sometimes the penetration is the foreplay.” He pushed gently, not wanting to hurt—not now, or with this—but relentlessly, and Owen’s breathing became shorter and more labored, shushing out in shudders, interspersed with gibbered half-words and growls.
Owen gasped as the dildo finally seated in his ass to the balls. All of Owen’s limbs trembled from accommodating the toy so suddenly, and Malcolm smoothed his hands down Owen’s flanks, gentling, before he flicked the end of the dildo and started them all off again.
“Oh God,” Owen grunted. “If you thought this thing would make this last, you’re dead wrong. Fuck, what are you doing?”
The muscles down Malcolm’s back danced in anticipation. First he grasped Owen’s cock—God, long and magnificent—and then shoved the cock ring on it, pulling it back until it was tight at the base and then wrapping it under Owen’s heavy balls.
Owen sighed, shuddered, grunted, and howled as he fought the restraint of the ring and the invasion of the toy, and Malcolm shivered himself, just hearing the agony of desire.
Malcolm made quick work of the condom on Owen’s cock, wishing he could suck him down, but there wasn’t going to be time. He shuddered, holding the thing in his hand, and then shuddered again, riding the high, nipple-tingling edge of arousal, just from hearing Owen’s noises—frantic, terribly erotic noises—as his entire body was clamped in a sexual vice. He pushed himself up and lay on the bed next to Owen for a moment, putting his hands over Owen’s fists, clasped voluntarily above his head.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Malcolm whispered. “You’re gorgeous. Amazing.” He stroked his cock, pre-cum puddling already. He skated his thumb through it and brought it to Owen’s mouth, popping it in and watching as Owen closed his eyes and grunted, sucking on it. Malcolm wanted to be three men then: he wanted to be the one scritching his fingernails across Owen’s nipples and the one getting his cock sucked into that wonderful vacuum and the one who got to whistle the crop along Owen’s backside while plying the dildo in his asshole. Just the thought made him tremble again, but he thought that maybe, this time, if he wasn’t going to be inside that tight body, he could make it last, not come until he was deep inside Owen’s throat, until Owen was so crazy that all he’d have to do was bend over and Owen would fuck him raw.
And to that end . . .
“Here, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He pulled his thumb out of Owen’s mouth and dropped his hand to his cock again. He didn’t bother to stroke this time because he was so aroused. He rubbed his thumb back through his pre-cum, trying not to groan, then brought it up to Owen’s lips and spread it there. When he was done, he went back and got some more while watching as Owen, eyes locked on his, licked it off slowly, savoring, and making the need that already had him in its claws grip just that much tighter.
“First,” he whispered when he could no longer watch Owen lick the cum off his lips without coming, “I’m going to take some of this”—he grabbed the lube—“and I’m going to do myself nice and slick. Are you watching me, mate? I’m reaching back and stretching my arsehole for you, right?”
“You fucker,” Owen choked, not even partially kidding.
“That make you hot? Knowing what I’m doing?”
“I’m going to fuck you until you scream.”
Malcolm looked at him tauntingly. “Your hands aren’t tied, Owen. There’s no safeword. You think you’re going to crack, you grab me and you fuck me. I’m all stretched for you, you don’t have to go slow. You’re all gloved up, and you just have to save your cum for when you’re in my arse, you hear me?”
“You’d better spank me good, Malcolm.” Malcolm actually moaned from the sound of his name in Owen’s hot, cum-covered mouth. “You’d better do a bang-up job of it, because when I’m good and ready, I’m going to grab you, and I’m going to bend you over the bed, and I’m going to—”
“Do you want me to gag you?” he asked, eyes closed. “Because if you don’t stop promising me things, I’m going to come right here, all over the bed.”
“You started it.” Owen buried his face into the comforter and shuddered. “God, Malcolm. God. I’m fucking begging you, man . . . God, please, please just spank me dammit. Just smack my ass, just . . .”
“That’s it,” Malcolm whispered in his ear, tracing the shell of it with his tongue. “That’s what I wanted to hear from you from the moment I saw you. I wanted to hear my name in your mouth, and I wanted to hear you beg.”
“Please!” Owen howled, and Malcolm couldn’t have waited any longer if he’d wanted to.
He gathered the crop, breathed calmly, because there was just no way he could get too carried away right now, despite the arousal and the playfulness and the recklessness of them both. But it was a battle, and the first touch of the crop was nothing more than a teasing slide feathering along Owen’s crack down to where his legs started, then underneath the curves of the muscles. As if he had to measure distance, but distance was an odd concept with Owen. Something kept blindsiding Malcolm, blurring his vision, breaking down whatever barriers he might have put in the way. He tapped Owen’s arse with the tip of the crop, landing a perfect blow—a sharp, precise sting—and Owen jumped a little. No more painful than a palm, just more concentrated. He placed an exact copy of th
at hit on the other arse cheek, then stroked again, making him feel the soft leather. “How’s that for a start?”
“Just . . . a start.” Owen’s voice strained as if he was fighting his own control. Or maybe he was surprised at the sensation.
Malcolm decided that as long as Owen was snarky, he was happy, and he landed two blows close together, making Owen jump. “As long as you don’t finish,” he warned, warmed by Owen’s chuff of air at the sting.
“When I finish, you’ll know it,” Owen snarled, and Malcolm rewarded him with a blow to the side of the red bloom already there. New pain, surprising, and Owen staved off a moan. Malcolm stroked the new place too, gently, wanting to kiss but not wanting to give up his crop.
“You’d better make me know it,” Malcolm purred, giving the dildo a gentle flick. A moan escaped and Malcolm moved the crop to the place he’d smacked twice and caressed that too. He soon found his own rhythm, and an odd playfulness. It seemed much less about control now and far more about proving to Owen that it could be as nuanced and fun as being draped over his legs and taking the spanking that way. And a crop held a surprising range to the uninitiated: from the softest taps that only really registered because of the hyper-awareness the body kicked into when it came to pain, to the searing shock of a hard snap. He played with what Owen was expecting and where, using surprise to his advantage, stopping when Owen moaned because that meant he was too close to the edge.
It wasn’t until he accidentally brushed his own cock with the handle of the crop and found himself wet and dripping that he realized how close to the edge he was, how badly he was in need, and his next touch on Owen’s arse was not with the crop but with his cock, held in his fist, wet and cold on Owen’s hot flesh.
“I’m so close,” he confessed, loving the way Owen strained backward to meet him. “So close. Do you want me to fuck you? I’ve got a condom right here. Say the word, and I’ll fuck you.”
“Argh!” Owen was a mass of shaking, barely-there control. “You had a plan, Malcolm, stick to it!”
“Why?” Oh, he was so close. Just a few movements and he’d be buried deep in Owen’s ass. He’d loved it there but . . . but . . .
“Because I want to taste your cum!”
Malcolm shuddered. No snark in Owen’s voice, no play, just hunger, and Malcolm barely made it over the bed to thrust inside Owen’s wide, wet mouth. Owen met him with the same need, and his brain shut down almost completely, nothing but Owen around him and sucking and teasing with his tongue, eagerly bobbing up and down on his cock.
God, he thought, half coherent, when he realized that yes, he really was going to come in Owen’s mouth, this wasn’t safe, but it was damn near irresistible, given how well everything clicked. Nothing with Owen rang anything less than true, nothing that got in the way, just one glorious rush of supercharged need, and once that barrier was done, he just couldn’t be arsed to hold back. He came hard, tunneling vision and all, barely managed to not grab Owen’s head and crush him to his body, shooting his load and, oddly, strangely aware that the mouth and throat and tongue around his cock belonged to somebody he liked and whose name he actually remembered.
He fell back, or was he being pushed? It so didn’t matter, not when that orgasm was lighting up every nerve ending in his body, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Owen’s weight landed on top of him, pushed his legs up and apart and then pushed a slick, condom-covered cock inside his arse.
Thank God for just that little bit foresight, because he wouldn’t have been able to make Owen stop to put a condom on. He arched and grimaced, tender from his orgasm, but he wouldn’t let that stop him, or Owen, now.
Malcolm could do very little but hold onto Owen as he ploughed his arse, over and over, with more stamina than his desperate speed and strength suggested. Shit, that boy could deliver a pounding he would struggle to forget, ever, and that was probably the biggest thing—he really wanted to remember this. Owen. Them. All of it.
He almost came again when Owen came, just from that burst of intimacy, the joy and passion on Owen’s face, and he pulled Owen down and kissed him breathlessly while Owen’s cock pumped into the condom. “You’re . . . quite something,” he whispered. Something new, different and extraordinary.
Owen just kissed him again.
He could just have happily fallen asleep, but Owen eventually prodded him into action and got him out of bed and into the shower. Personally, he really didn’t need to wash immediately after sex; he’d have been okay with a shower the next morning. But Owen had the toy to deal with and probably a sore arse, and he wanted Malcolm’s company, so Malcolm gave in.
The shower was close, intimate, and Malcolm nuzzled Owen under the thick spray, grateful the man wasn’t mocking him for the tenderness. He craved that skin-on-skin feeling, craved the touch and the smell, and didn’t quite know what to do with himself, so he kissed every bit of skin he could reach, until he ended up on his knees in the shower, eyes closed, face against Owen’s belly, Owen holding him close.
There was no self-consciousness, at least for a few moments, while Owen ran hands over his shoulders and neck, stroking his hair back from his face, just holding him while his skin drank in their touch like the water washing them clean. Who could have predicted this? In a thousand years, he couldn’t have seen an Owen walking into his life and making him feel . . . what?
It was big, and complicated, when what he wanted was so simple. He wanted the feeling of Owen’s body next to his, and he wanted sleep. The complicated would have to wait, so when they climbed out of the shower, dried off, and fell into bed, he closed his eyes to the soft sound of Owen’s breathing and slept well.
Owen woke up early, knowing it was Sunday, knowing Malcolm would sleep in. He thought about running out for breakfast, but it was just so lovely, lying in with that warm, dynamic, powerful body breathing softly next to him.
Malcolm seemed to need him.
It was an amazing thought—and not altogether comfortable. Owen’s mother needed him home—or so she said. But his mother had raised him alone, and raised him to be independent, to go out into the world and make his way. She had encouraged his experimentation and his decisions to become the man he was. Surely, she hadn’t done all that to castrate him at twenty-three, right? Make him live with her like Norman Bates until he snapped with the strain?
Malcolm curled into him, seeking heat in the cool morning, cooler now that dawn had broken and the sky outside the bedroom was turning from dark blue to gray. He pulled Malcolm into his arms and kissed a naked shoulder, a solid bicep, then dusted his lips across Malcolm’s ribs. A muffled laugh came from the pillow, and he pulled back before Malcolm’s flailing arm caught his nose.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Way to kill a mood.”
“I usually hate being tickled,” Malcolm confessed, pulling his arm under his chest and looking at Owen sideways. “What were you doing?”
“Touching you,” he said, and then kissed his shoulder again.
Malcolm closed his eyes, his defensive curl relaxing as Owen kissed up his shoulder to the back of his neck.
“What are we doing today, Yank?” Malcolm wiggled, then sighed. He probably had a hard-on. Owen rolled on top of him, his knees between Malcolm’s thighs, his own morning wood grinding up against Malcolm’s backside. He shoved a hand between Malcolm’s hips and the mattress and felt it, awakening flesh, and squeezed, letting Malcolm’s gasp roll through him, make everything tremble, wake up his nerve endings and start that ever-present ache that had begun in the depths of his groin the moment those pale eyes had met his over a glass of pissy beer.
“We’re staying in bed,” he said, grinding up against Malcolm and feeling him thrust into his hand. “We’re ordering in. We’re fucking like lemmings and talking like friends. Can you stand that?”
Malcolm groaned and thrust into Owen’s hand again, then ground his ass against Owen’s cock, and then again, and then again, and then again.
“Can I get you a co
ndom to start that off?” Malcolm asked, and Owen could tell he was gasping for sanity at the end.
“You don’t need one,” Owen whispered. “I’m going to come on your ass, not in it.”
Which he did, while Malcolm spilled himself again and again, hot and slick, over Owen’s pumping fist.
Owen cleaned them up, then crawled back in bed. When Malcolm lay on his side and looked at him, Owen turned his head, suddenly embarrassed. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm said unexpectedly.
“About what?”
“I came in your mouth last night—”
Owen grimaced, annoyed. “I wanted it.”
“But I know better!”
“You’re not my big brother,” he said. “Thank God. Grown up here, having sex, making a decision. My risk to take.”
“You’re very young,” Malcolm said.
Owen turned around and laughed at him. “Are you even thirty yet?”
Malcolm flushed. “A couple of months,” he mumbled, and Owen laughed some more.
“See? You’re barely older than I am.” He rolled on his side and frowned. “So why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the whole Dom thing? You were a total shit to that guy on the phone Friday, but that’s not you at all. Why are you all locked into that when you’re not even thirty?”
Malcolm turned away. “It is too me,” he said, and Owen rolled his eyes.
“Is not.”
“Is too!”
Owen’s face split into a grin. “Is not is not is not, infinity, I win. Now cop to it. Why?”
“Brat,” Malcolm said, which Owen cut off with “Sub!” before the word was even out of Malcolm’s mouth.
“Fuck.” Malcolm put his back to Owen, and Owen snuggled up to him, wrapping an arm solidly against his resisting chest.
“Aren’t you the one who said it’s easier to be intimate with a stranger?” he asked gently, stroking Malcolm’s chest from behind.
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