Page 119 of Man On

Not using a stall will be a big step. And yeah, it should probably be his choice. But if he wants my cock, he'll do things my way and come and get it. He takes a few steps, but his movements get slower and a little jerky. His eyelids flutter.

"Eyes on me, Lane," I tell him, waiting for his grey-green orbs to focus on me.

The moment our eyes lock, his shoulders relax, and he continues forward until he's standing under the spray with me. He breaks eye contact to put his face under the water, but it's a good thing. Multiple sensations, especially shocks to the system like hot water, are good for working around oncoming panic. It's why Hannah's trick with the sour candy works, and both of us always have a few pieces handy just in case we aren't somewhere that I can force an orgasm out of him.

When his eyes open again, they're hazy with lust. His mouth meets mine, and we wrestle for dominance with our tongues and bodies, pushing each other against the tile wall as I wash him everywhere except his dick. I always win, though, and I've got him pinned to the wall with one leg hiked high around my waist, fingering his asshole open. He grows impossibly hard as I finger and stretch him until he's begging, and then I flip him around to face the wall, holding his hands against the tile. My hands and mouth are everywhere except where he wants them most, touching, kneading, caressing. I lick along his spine and trail open-mouthed kisses across the back of his shoulder. Taking my cock in hand, I rub it up and down his crack while I kiss, nip, and lick every inch of exposed skin that I can reach.

I line myself up, pressing just the tip through his tight hole. My cock pulses an inch or two inside him, rubbing the inside of his rim with my crown while I adjust our stance. His back curves when I kick his feet wider and pull his hips backwards, sinking into him deeper. His groan echoes off the walls as I bottom out, holding our bodies flush. He turns his head to kiss me over his shoulder, but pushes his ass back, silently asking me to get on with it.

I wish I'd thought of recording the music we make in this open space. Every moan, cry, and slap of our bodies coming together echoes off the walls, merging into a perfect harmony of erotic sound to match the pleasure building up inside me. He feels so good, pushing back on my cock with every thrust.

I bend my knees and roll my hips to drive into him at just the right angle, and Lane cries out.

"Oh God, Noah! Right there!"

"Right here, baby?" I repeat, snapping my hips at the same angle.

"Fuck! Yes!"

"Is my dirty little slut of a stepbrother going to come for me without so much as touching your dick?"

"Yes! Yes! Right there! Noah!"

"God. Fuck. Lane. I can feel it. You're so close. Fucking come for me, baby!"

"Gaahhhhhhh!" His choked cry bounces off the wall as his cock sprays wildly, cum splattering all over the tile. I reach around him and grip his cock, jerking him hard while pegging his prostate to prolong his orgasm. He's a trembling, whimpering mess when I've finally wrung the last drop out of him, still moving my hard cock inside. I'm so close to my own release, and considering whether I want to fill his ass with my cum or mark him, when someone jiggles the door handle.

"Oh God!" Lane whispers, trying to pull away and hide. But I wrap my arm around his waist and hold him still.

"Someone's in here!" I shout. "I'll be out in a minute!"

"Are you fucking nuts?!"

"I'm about to nut in you if you don't calm down," I say, holding my breath as his body tenses. "The door is locked. It's fine."

"They're going to know we were in here together."

"So?"

"They're probably going to guess what we were doing in here together."

"And?"

"We could get in trouble."

"Not if they can't prove it."

"It's obvious!"

"Tell them I made you do it," I whisper in his ear before pressing a hand to the middle of his back, pushing his chest to the tile wall and spearing his ass again. "It doesn't count if I make you."

LANE

She's standing at the end of the corridor, wearing a cardigan over her ankle length dress. I didn't expect her to be so tiny. I've seen pictures of her, of course, and the interviews she did for the documentary, but in person she seems smaller. She looks more like him than she does in her pictures. Maybe it's the expressiveness of her eyes. She looks like she has stories to tell, things to say. I wonder if she sings—it's not something I ever thought to ask her during our phone briefs with the lawyers.

"Lane." Ms. Blakely smiles when she says my name, like meeting me in person is a relief somehow.

We were supposed to get together for dinner before the witnesses were called to trial yesterday, but her flight was delayed by a snowstorm where she lives in Missouri. She nearly didn't make it in time to testify, but walked through the doors this morning, pulling her carry-on luggage behind her. Ms. Clarke was able to get the court to focus on other aspects of the case before pulling me to the stand. She had her reasons for wanting my testimony to come right before Ms. Blakely’s.

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