by Amy Lane
“God,” Malcolm panted. Was he aroused? “You’re stubborn.” Smack! “Just come already. Come!”
“You want me to come?” Smack! “Then kiss my hot red ass, Malcolm. Kiss it! Kiss it and fuck me deep!”
“Kiss your . . .?” Malcolm was so surprised he actually stopped spanking, and Owen writhed as the air cooled the heated burn on his ass.
“You don’t have to rim me,” Owen snarled, “just touch me!” And fuck me, he added, but he thought that would go without saying.
Malcolm expelled a harsh breath, and then shifted Owen so his backside was truly in the middle between Malcolm’s hard, hairy thighs. (That hair was rasping Owen’s sensitized nipples deliciously, even as his chest moved past Malcolm’s leg and his hands, still clenched together, touched the ground.) Malcolm had to bend—it couldn’t have been comfortable, and Owen arched his ass up close, and for a moment, Malcolm just panted, hot breaths that gave heat to the banked fire of Owen’s skin. Then, tentatively, his tongue came out and traced a line on Owen’s right flank, and Owen moaned in encouragement.
A fine line, toward Owen’s crease but not in, and then Malcolm lifted his head, and Owen felt lips, soft and exquisitely gentle on his reddened skin. The tongue came out, wet the lips, and there they were again, soft, kind, tiny little kisses, and Owen allowed himself to beg.
“That’s beautiful, Malcolm. Oh God, the plug! I need it so bad. Keep kissing, just . . . oh God . . . the only place that mouth would feel better is on my cock—”
“Make up your mind,” Malcolm groused, but it seemed oddly kind, teasing, and the kiss turning into a scrape of his teeth but nothing more, just the promise of a bite. “Fuck. I want you.” He dipped low to suck Owen’s balls into his mouth, squeezing them carefully, just right, and Owen’s orgasm was building again, one little bit at a time, then rapidly as Malcolm found enough coordination to press against the end of the plug.
Before he could get quite there, Malcolm stopped and ran strong fingers over his ass, kneading the muscle. That slap felt impatient, even slightly irritated. “Get on the couch. I’ll suit up.” Malcolm reached to wherever he’d been reaching before, then guided Owen to get back on the couch on all fours.
He considered protesting the position and turning onto his back, but that was when Malcolm’s fingers played with the plug. Owen groaned and pushed his ass out. When the plug left him, he felt even more vulnerable, empty, but that was just for a moment, as Malcolm pushed two lubed fingers into his hole.
“Just getting you ready,” Malcolm murmured, and shifted his weight again. That small crinkling sound was the condom, and Owen relaxed as much as he could, desperate to come now.
The blunt large head demanded entry, and he moaned when Malcolm pulled his ass cheeks apart, as if to watch himself push in. But such concerns were well past Owen’s capability now, even though he knew how practiced all this was, how much Malcolm the sex robot got out of this, how it had to feed his ego.
Malcolm pushed slowly, and, oh hells, he was bigger, so much bigger than the plug. Owen had loved the dark and the uncertainty of it all, but suddenly he wanted light. He wanted to see it, hold it, know the thing that was invading his flesh, and know it intimately.
Suddenly, just as Malcolm slid home hard and deep and bordering the fine edge of just too goddamned big, he had a hunger to see Malcolm’s face. He wanted to see if this mattered.
Behind him, Malcolm let out a low, pained, tenuous groan. “Hell . . .” he panted. “Oh bloody fucking hell.” He pulled back and slammed forward, and Owen groaned. The sound seemed to spur Malcolm on.
“God, scream for me,” he hissed, thrusting so hard Owen was driven, face first, into the couch. “Spanked you till my hand was raw, you fucking git.” Malcolm’s hips thrust forward again and another low, hard groan tore out of Owen’s mouth.
Malcolm’s hand came down hard on his ass, not with practice or the intent to arouse, but with sheer, screaming frustration, and Owen’s howl was not entirely from need. Malcolm didn’t seem to hear that sound, though, because he smacked Owen again and drove forward, his cock so far into Owen’s ass that Owen could feel their balls slap together. “Just wanted,” thrust, “to hear you,” smack! “come!”
Owen screamed, his entire body one unbearable ache of pain and desire. He reached underneath himself, resting his weight on his shoulder as Malcolm pounded into him, and grabbed his cock, needing to come so badly he didn’t care how it happened. He was dripping pre-cum, and normally he liked some play with that, some sweet teasing of the crown, some gentle squeezing, but that wasn’t what he needed now. What he needed now was his fist, tight and hot and hard, pumping until his aching balls pulled up underneath him.
Malcolm thrust again, and the added smack of their balls together set him off, set his cum pumping from his fisted cock.
Malcolm howled, “No, dammit, no!” and then his thrusting grew more frenzied and his hands left marks on Owen’s hips as he ground Owen into the couch with a berserker’s fuck. When he came, he let out a howl and collapsed around Owen, convulsing in orgasm, breathing so hard and fast Owen was worried for him.
As Owen relaxed into the couch, the world around him black and the trembling body of an almost-stranger sweating on top of him, it occurred to him that sometime between his own finger dipped into Grey Goose, the promise of a night to come, and this very moment, his companion had flipped some of his puzzle pieces, become more human and less robot—and Owen had willingly blinded himself to the transformation.
With a little bit of self-directed anger, he ripped off his blindfold and reached over his shoulder to stroke that curly hair. The gel had sweated out, and it was soft and sticky under his fingers.
Shit. Damn. Fuck. Malcolm groaned in frustration, and, if he were being honest, fucking embarrassment. Promising a stranger a good night, fulfilling his fantasy, and then losing it like a fucking schoolboy. He’d had bigger plans, much better plans, had wanted to blow Owen’s mind, and then this.
Total fuck-up, control jumped out of the window in one glorious, sweaty mess, but regardless, this wasn’t like him, and he knew a dozen guys who’d laugh at him for promising much and delivering pathetically little. He could let arousal simmer for hours, could play with denial and need, slowly removing all inhibitions. It worked, he’d done it, knew how to do it, and delivering any less felt like a total failure. Despite the pleasant post-orgasm buzz, despite the fact that Owen had come.
And was touching him.
Malcolm secured the condom (you can do at least that one right, can’t you?) and pulled out, his palms hot from the slapping, sweaty, tingling. He wanted to lean into the touch, because for the moment, Owen felt safe enough for him to do that. Was he?
Malcolm had no fucking clue. “Sorry,” he murmured and got up. He pulled the condom off and near-rushed into the bathroom, where he tossed it in the bin.
In the mirror there, he looked like a tousled, sweaty disaster, squinting at his own reflection in the too-bright light. He leaned forward, seeing the two (okay, three) fine lines under his eyes, that bewildered stare because he’d be damned if he had the slightest clue how he could have lost control like that.
He did remember the accusation from one guy who’d crushed on him a few years ago—poor guy had even waited for him outside the bank after work—who had thrown something like a hissy fit: It’s not a competition, Malcolm. You don’t always have to win.
He tossed some water in his face and then stuck his head under the faucet, washing the sweat off, and the rest of the hair gel, because that stickiness would be all over the pillows once he managed to sleep.
Shit. And how to face the stranger—Owen—when he returned to the living room? He really didn’t want to hear any smartass comments on his performance. Really not. He washed his hands—again—and dried them with the care of a surgeon before an operation. Ideally, when he came out, Owen would just have left and hopefully not have stolen his phone or wallet or something.
He str
aightened, rubbed his eyes again and inhaled a few times. He could still play it cool. Turn it into something of a compliment. You’re simply too hot—your own damn fault. He snorted. No. He’d only use that if Owen gave him any shit about it.
He opened the door again and saw one of the reading lamps near the couch was switched on. The blindfold lay near his glasses on the table. He headed back and didn’t look into Owen’s eyes. The guy was following his movements with his gaze. He was sitting up, still naked, not bothering to cover himself with any of his clothes strewn on the ground.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and Malcolm grimaced. Ah, the ultimate insult.
“Bloody great. I’m sorry about that last bit,” he said, still not looking. “Here, we can go into the bedroom. It’ll get cold in here in a bit.”
“Can I wipe off your couch for you?” Owen asked, and for a moment Malcolm startled, thinking they were playing the kinky servant game, but then he realized his little country mouse was just being nice.
“I’ll get it,” he mumbled. He moved to the puddle of his clothes and found his silk boxers and put them on, then threw his dress shirt on because he felt just a little too bare. And he wasn’t kidding. Half his flat was windows—it would be damn cold very shortly.
He walked to the kitchen and reached for a dish towel, squinting and wishing he’d put on his glasses, and was good and truly surprised when that lanky, athletic body showed up right behind his. A pair of long-fingered, narrow-palmed hands landed on his shoulders, and Owen whispered, “I can get this, Malcolm. We had sex. Here, gimme.”
Malcolm was undone enough to let him, and he had to admit that since Owen hadn’t put on his boxers, the view of his naked backside, stretched and red as he bent over the couch and wiped it off, was a treat. He put his glasses back on, and in the new-found clarity, spotted the red marks on Owen’s hips and grimaced.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and Owen followed his gaze and straightened, grinning faintly.
“Not going to forget that in the morning, am I?”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, tortured by having to explain. Didn’t mean to do that? Malcolm didn’t mean to do something in bed?
“I’m well aware,” Owen said, smiling that gentle smile again. He stood up and walked the dish towel to the sink, rinsing it out like he knew his way around. He draped the cloth over the spigot to dry, dried his hands and said, “Here, I owe you something.”
“What? A graceless fuck in a stranger’s flat?”
“Haven’t gotten one of those yet,” Owen said, taking Malcolm’s hand from its resting place on the counter. He picked it up, his hands cool and drying, and Malcolm still felt the heat and sting from smacking so hard. “I made a request, you followed through.” And with that, he pulled Malcolm’s hand to his mouth and placed a warm, wet, open-mouthed kiss on his palm.
Malcolm shivered, the tenderness of the kiss soothing all sorts of sting. Owen’s lips kept moving, and his tongue came out to tease the center. Then he pulled Malcolm’s finger into his mouth and suckled on that. He released the finger, teased the webbing with his tongue, and moved to the middle finger, laving that one too.
Malcolm gasped and tilted his head back, leaning against the counter and feeling strangely helpless to stop that gentle, playful caress of tongue and lips. Owen stopped, eventually, but not before all of the tension, the pain, of the last few embarrassing moments had faded away, and Malcolm was left, strangely relaxed and a little floaty, leaning against his kitchen counter.
Owen pulled back and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then reached around his shoulder, his chest brushing Malcolm’s as he did so. It was such a natural, intimate thing to do, after the almost frightening escalation into sex they’d had, that Malcolm leaned forward, just to prolong the contact—and then jerked back because he felt needy, and he was never needy.
“You left the orange juice out,” Owen said, pressing his groin and stomach intimately (and a little high up, actually) against Malcolm’s, and leaning back so he could raise the bottle to his lips. “You’re not a stickler for this, are you?” He tilted his head back and his throat worked as he took a couple of swallows.
Malcolm watched him, that neediness assailing him again, and when Owen grinned and offered him the bottle, he took it and swallowed the last bit in two gulps. He numbly set the bottle back on the counter and gave in to temptation, putting his hands on Owen’s lean, naked hips.
“You were right,” Owen said softly, feathering cool lips along his temple.
“About what?”
“It’s getting damn cold here in the kitchen. I’d love to take you to the bedroom, get under the covers, and kiss you some more. Or is that too personal?”
Malcolm swallowed and managed a crooked grin. “No, no—you’ll be on your way out of town soon. Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.”
He hadn’t quite meant it to hurt, just as a rationalization. He had planned for breakfast (but under different circumstances, admittedly), had calculated to spend a bit more time, all casual as could be.
He’d also had loads of fucks that left after the sex to catch the last Tube or bus. Those were fine, too. Especially on a work day (and really, what day wasn’t?). Getting up at six to be jogged, showered, suited, and booted at the bank by a quarter past seven for the news roundup from the research department didn’t really leave time to be terribly nice to some conquered piece of ass he’d brought in from God-knew-where.
Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.
But damn, Owen was the nicest stranger he could think of. “I didn’t mean it that way, you know.”
Owen nodded, like he’d just said something completely clear that didn’t actually bear repeating. “Bedroom?”
Kissing and touching. Yeah, he really wanted that. “Just going to brush my teeth. I have a spare toothbrush if you want it.”
They did that part in companionable silence, like some married couple, no squabbling over space in front of the mirror, and he couldn’t help but think that Owen looked good there, brushing his teeth slowly and deliberately, whereas Malcolm was what his dentist referred to as a “mad scrubber.” Maybe part of that irritation was just frustration right now, remnants of the embarrassment. He washed out his mouth and headed to the bedroom.
The large bed was made (this place came with cleaning service), the sheets all clean, because he liked nothing more than to sink, freshly-showered, into a completely fresh bed, whatever else he’d gotten up to the day or night before.
The Egyptian cotton sheets felt almost too crisp on his skin, at least for that moment until they took his body heat. He’d only shed his dress shirt and kept his boxers on. Owen, though, was still naked, and that suited him beautifully, too.
The touch on his chest was more politely gentle than tentative, and he almost sighed. It did feel good to lie back and not be expected to do much. He’d likely be able to go a second round, but right now, he was just relaxing, and how rare an occurrence was that while he had a hot guy in his bed.
Double spearmint taste in his mouth when Owen leaned over to kiss him, one hand stroking his face as he did, thumb nearly tickling his lip and the corner of his mouth. But it was the good kind of tickle. Malcolm smiled and relished the skin-on-skin feeling, the touch, even the eye contact. “Why are we here? I get you probably ended up in an overpriced shithole of a hotel—”
“I really like your mouth.”
The shape and feeling, maybe, not what was coming out of it. Malcolm smiled. He couldn’t help it. Damn, the guy was cute. Really cute.
“So you’re spending the night at my flat because you really like my—” Both of Owen’s hands came up, burying themselves in the curly mass of his hair, and Owen positioned him just so, and then touched his lips harder, possessively, and his tongue swept in deeper, with authority.
Malcolm groaned, opened to him, surprised that someone who’d been so eager to submit to him could take the lead with such ease. When hi
s blood had surged to his skin some, including a healthy dose all points south, and his breathing had quickened, and someone (him) had made a breathless moan into someone’s (Owen’s) mouth, Owen pulled back and placed gentling kisses on the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin.
Malcolm felt stranded, panting slightly for breath, as he clung to Owen’s shoulders (hard shoulders—not massy at all, but hard; Owen was no stranger to a gym) and tried to capture Owen’s mouth.
Owen refused to be captured. He kissed down Malcolm’s stubbled chin and pulled back, grinning.
“What?” Malcolm had never felt so vulnerable.
“You’ve got a good shadow here,” Owen said, scraping it with his thumb. “I’m jealous.” He flashed a powerful grin and brought a hand to rub across his own barely-stubbled jaw. “I tried to grow a goatee once. It came out more like a Chia pet. We called it ‘Chia beard.’”
Malcolm chuckled, resisting the temptation to put his hand over his mouth. He touched Owen’s cheek instead, liking the feel of the almost-smoothness under his palm. Owen had a long jaw and a narrow, pretty face. His eyes—plain brown at first glance, were dark and liquid and framed with lashes that were blond at the tips.
“Your face is too pretty to hide under a beard anyway,” he said, trying to sound older and decisive. Instead, he sounded . . . dreamy, but maybe Owen liked dreamy, because he smiled softly and lowered his head for another kiss. “Good chin, great jawline.” He traced it, fingernail scraping gently along the soft skin beyond the bone ridge. He liked to suck on that, bite a bit, depending on mood and timing. “Great body, too,” he added, wondering why he felt the need to compliment Owen. He liked him. No harm done, right? It wasn’t a competition, not in this case. If it had been, he’d have ended it by losing the game back on the couch. He could be gracious in defeat. Maybe. Try to. It wasn’t Owen’s fault. No, Owen had stayed around and was still touching and kissing him.
