Page 9 of Too Many Beds

But this damn scene didn’t require that. Instead, he had to inexpertly poke about for a minute before he got Brandt’s go-ahead and his skills suddenly and dramatically improved.

He delved deeper, rimming Ryder with purpose, flicking and stroking and teasing, fucking into Ryder, feeling him shake as he tried not to writhe on Storm’s tongue, as he moaned and arched his back, as his body begged so sweetly for more.

Storm had just settled in for a proper feast when his new least favorite word rang through the studio.

“Cut! That was great. Bring in the next bed!”

Brandt had theworsttiming.

Storm and Ryder groaned in unison. This sex montage could burn in the deepest, fieriest pits of hell as far as Storm was concerned, and they’d barely begun to film it.

They climbed off the bed, and Storm noted with pride that Ryder’s legs weren’t entirely steady as they stepped away. The crew hurried to switch out the beds.

“Storm,” Brandt said, “get yourself ready.”

After getting a taste of Ryder, Storm was more than ready, but it was always best to follow the director’s orders. He spat in his hand and wrapped it around his shaft. Ryder’s eyes tracked the movement; he didn’t pretend to avert his gaze, and that was perfectly fine with Storm. Arousal buzzed through him just like Ryder’s magic had buzzed against his skin. He dragged his fist over his length, keeping his pace unhurried and leisurely, rolling his foreskin up and down with each motion.

Ryder’s fingers flexed, and Storm could practically feel his need to touch himself, to copy Storm’s strokes, to jerk offtogether. But the next shot didn’t call for Ryder to be fully hard, so he had to stand there and watch.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

But then Ryder shook himself and looked up at Storm with narrowed eyes.

“What did you mean by ‘unlike some other fans’?”

The question was so random that it had Storm’s hand faltering. “What?”

“After the interview, you said MateHub fans never riot. Was that a swipe at soccer fans?”

“Uh… yeah? Obviously.”

“What do you have against soccer fans?”

“Well, the riots, for one thing. You don’t see football fans doing that shit.” …Often.

“Right. Which is why they grease up the light poles in Philadelphia. The lack of potential riots.”

“Are you saying you don’t like a good greased pole?” He gave himself a nice, long stroke to emphasize the question.

Ryder’s gaze flicked down, but he shook himself again.

Before he could respond, Brandt directed them to take their places on the new bed—a twin on a matte black metal frame.

Ryder slid onto it, leaning back on his hands, his legs wide enough apart for Storm to kneel between them. He picked up the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers. “Don’t tell me you think American football is better than soccer.”

Storm watched Ryder’s fingers working in and out of his hole—a little extra stretching, making sure he was nice and lubed up. He grabbed the bottle to slick himself up as well. “Of course it’s better.”

“Not in a million years.” Ryder scoffed. “Football games are so long.”

“Hate to break it to you, but if you’re not a fan of long things, you aren’t going to enjoy the rest of this scene.”

Ryder snorted.

“Okay, okay,” Brandt said. “If you’re ready, let’s go.”

They cleaned their hands on the wipes the crew passed them, and the scene began.

Ryder stayed propped up, Storm still between his legs, as they stared at Kodiak.

---