Page 146 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod

“Hey.” He shakes gently and then harder when I can’t focus on him. “Hey, hey, hey! Brody. Snap out of it. Brody!”

Suddenly, no more air is forcing itself into my lungs. Miles’ lips are on mine, his hands on my cheeks, holding me tightly to him. When my brain finally catches up and I start breathing through my nose, he pulls away. His hands are still on my cheeks, eyes full of concern as they study my face.

“Brody?”

I don’t want to speak. My hand flies up to the collar of Miles’ shirt and I pull him toward me again, this time with the express intent of thanking the man properly. He smiles against my lips, a grown rumbling from deep in his chest.

“Easy, tiger,” he chuckles against my lips. I let my mouth fall away, pressing my forehead to his.

“Sorry.” I inhale deeply, letting it out fast.

“I’m with you, Brody,” he breathes, the warm air hitting my chin and neck. “I’ve always been here. It’s ok.”

I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. Miles hasn’t just been there for me, he’s cared for me more than anyone else, protected me when kids in school made fun of me, assured me that nothing was wrong with me. Images flash in my mind of touches and glances and moments alone with him, even before we met Sophie. Before she allowed us to bridge the gap. My reservations crumble.

“Studio?” I don’t know how else to ask. I don’t know how to do this with him. I want him, but I need help.

“Brody, are you sure?”

“Ask me that again,” I growl, gently grabbing his throat and noting that his eyes flash, “and I won’t show you how good boys get rewarded.”

“Jesus, fuck.” Miles begins backing toward the hallway. “I’m taking that as a resounding yes.”

I run my hand through my hair and follow Miles to his studio, thankful that the pause doesn’t give me second thoughts. Once he crosses the threshold, he turns toward me and I walk him backward to the edge of the bed. Again, I find myself uncertain of the next step, but Miles pulls me in gently with his hand on my side.

My lips find his and they part to allow my tongue to take over, conjuring up the memory of how his mouth felt around my cock. My aching erection is dying to escape. Miles seems to read my mind, dropping his hands to the button of my jeans. I snake my hand up to grab his hair, pulling his head back. He smiles with an open mouth, eyes on me while his fingers work to free me.

“What do you want, Brody?” he asks, his voice husky and low. “You want me to suck your cock? Want to taste mine?” He winks. “Or do you just want me to ride you?”

I let go of his hair and back away, my pants undone but still hanging at my hips. Not wanting to waste time, I strip my shirt and hurry to kick off my pants, while Miles does the same. As his shirt lands near mine, my fingers find the waistband of his boxer briefs and I slip my hand beneath the fabric to palm him. It’s the first time I’ve touched him like this and the need for more drives me forward.

Miles’ hand lands on my wrist, to beg me to keep going or to make me stop, I’m not sure. I search his face for an indication either way, my eyes falling to the movement of his inked throat when he swallows whatever he’s about to say.

“Where’s your lube?” I ask, glancing around the room. He’d be a poor porn star if he didn’t keep some on hand.

“Bedside table.”

“Grab it.”

I’ve never seen him move so quickly, pulling open a drawer and taking out a half-empty bottle of clear lubricant. His hand extends halfway to me, unsure what my plan is.

“Sit,” I order. Miles hurries to comply and I smirk. “Good boy.” I like the way he responds to my praise.

I take a step back and bite my lip while I study him. Miles squirms beneath my gaze and I have half a mind to make him sit there longer, but we’ll toy with that idea later.

“Pull out your cock.” That sounds absolutely filthy. Miles shudders and complies, the waistband slapping his legs once he’s free. “Now, I want you to use the lube and stroke yourself. Show me what you like. Keep your eyes on me.”

Taking a ragged breath, but remaining otherwise silent, Miles flips open the lube and squeezes some into his palm. He inhales sharply as the cold gel hits his hand and dribbles through his fingers onto his waiting shaft. Tossing the lube back onto the bed, he drops his hand and covers himself, stroking with a groan.

My chest rises and falls a little faster, in time with his movements until he speeds up. He focuses on the head, squeezing as he reaches the end of each stroke.

“What else can I do?” he asks, desperation in his voice.

“Keep going,” I urge, taking a step closer. I still can’t reach him, so I watch.

“Brody.” He sounds pained, eyes closing.

“Look at me.”

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