Page 31 of Vine

He moaned as I traced a thumb over the head. “Yes. Ah…merde…yes. 15.9 centimetres erect, with a…merde… a circumference of 12.6.” His fist curled around mine, engulfing it. “Yours is smaller.”

I snorted. Yep, this man was different, and for some reason, I fucking dug it. Right down to that last fucking precise millimetre.

We found a choppy rhythm, in a side-by-side urgent tangle of legs, arms, hands, dicks, and tongues. Instinctive, uncomplicated, mutual handjobs with some old-fashioned spit to smooth the path. Maybe it was the ease, maybe it was the primeval simplicity of the other person chasing the same, but I’d forgotten how good someone else’s rough hand on my dick could feel. For a rare moment, my mind emptied of all the shit crowding it out save the giving and receiving of raw pleasure.

Max was close. I sensed it from the jerkiness of his hand, the tightening of his meaty thighs around my wrist, the heaves of his chest. I worked him harder, faster, urgently. I wanted to see it. Wanted his blunt contradictions of strength, force, and hesitancy to spill over into my hand. Wanted him to finally look me in the eye, gasping, wanted to please him.

“Don’t stop,” he moaned. “I’m... I’m…”

Hot jets streamed through my fingers, on and on. I pumped him dry, then turned on myself, putting his slippery release to good use. So close, I was so fucking close, if I could just… just fuck… With a delicious spike of pain, Max’s teeth clamped down onto my shoulder, and, unbelievably, I joined him.

“Oh my God, I managed to come.” I flopped onto my back, fighting for breath. “I can’t believe it.”

Max was panting too, his arm flung over his face, his huge man wang glistening wet and still semi-hard against his hip. Both of us riding the crest of apetite mort: me chasing the elation and holding onto it for as long as I could, and Max doing… whatever Max did.

“Why.” His voice sounded even growlier than usual.

“Why what?”

“You said you can’t believe it.”

Shit, I’d said that out loud and he was waiting for an answer. The long or the short version? Neither were especially sexy. My euphoria leached away. As my dick turned soggy and cold, I groped for my underwear, failing to locate it. I really wasn’t much of a catch.

“Because I… I’ve struggled to come recently,” I said, sitting up. “I can get it up, no problem at all, but…” Fuck,waytoo much information. “It’s no big deal.”

I hadn’t had many casual encounters—I’d met Leigh not long after the beginning of my sexual journey—but enough to know how pick-ups panned out.

Seemed my new friend hadn’t. He hauled me back down, arranging me across his chest and in his arms as though the space was reserved especially for me.

“I should go…” I began, but a heavy dog landed on my feet, stymieing my second attempt to leave. I snuffled a chuckle into Max’s broad chest. “Two against one, hey?”

“Yes. I’m not finished with you.”

A big hand stroked across my hip. The tips of his fingers walked their way down to my flaccid dick. Delightful in its way, but he’d get no joy there again, not tonight.

“I’m on some medication, Max. For my… um, mental health? It kind of, you know, dampens things down a bit? In the sexdepartment? Physiologically? I’m amazed we got this far. So you… um… might have a bit of a wait for round two. Like, several months. And it’s horribly embarrassing and not something I go around telling people, except that you’ve already seen for yourself how fucked up I am and… and I’m still here, so I guess… well, yeah. This is me. Pretty fucking special.”

His fingers changed route, pausing no more than an inch from the dressing covering my thigh wound. Inconceivable to hope he’d forgotten about it. Mentalandphysical issues. I truly was the gift that kept on giving.

Soft lips pressed against the top of my hair. “This medication. Does it stop you cuddling someone?”

“Um… no, it doesn’t.”

“Then shush.”

We lay in darkness, and miraculously, I didn’t fall asleep. The slow stroking continued unabated, as if he enjoyed it, not caring it wasn’t leading anywhere, or that I wasn’t reciprocating. As though he’d recognised my mood had swooped from elation to misery in the time it took me to wipe our combined release from my hand onto the sheet, and it didn’t matter. Hot tears pricked my eyelids.

“Don’t feel you have to do this, Max. I’m kind of a lost cause. You’ve probably realised that, but just because you found me and helped me, that doesn’t mean I’m your extended problem.” My voice grew thick and unsteady, but I pushed on anyhow. This touch of his was way too thoughtful, the touch of a man who wanted to lie like this with me again. “The last half hour has been fun, really, more fun than I’ve had in forever, but you absolutely don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You’ve cut yourself again.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Because you’re ill.”

“Yes. It’s not a new thing, Max. I do it to cope. The cutting. It’s a symptom, you know? Like some people cope by drinking too much, or chain smoking, or taking drugs, or starving themselves. I don’t do those things—well, perhaps the starving thing every now and again—but I have a serious issue with anxiety. Like I have 99 problems all the time, and 86 of them are totally made up in my head. I’ve been this way for years. So honestly? I’m not someone you need to take on. I’m poor company, bad tempered, and stressy. A hot mess. I have no friends because of it.”

“Are you getting better?”

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