Page 126 of The Good Boys Club

Oh, yes. Holy gods, yes. This was actually happening.

How many times had I imagined this moment? Even before I’d ever considered I might be bi. I’d never once predicted we’d eventually fuck on my childhood bathroom floor, though.

“Mash, let me know if it’s too much, okay?” he said.

“Yes boss,” I replied.

I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was rolling his eyes.

He pressed harder against my hole. “Ready?”

“So fucking ready.”

“You sure?”

“Just fuck me, Ci, please. I need you to fuck me so hard they’ll hear my screams in Remy. Please, I’ll be such a good boy for you. I’ll do everything you want, but I need you to ruin this ass right n—”

Cian snapped. Pushed inside me as though he could no longer hold himself back. “Oh, gods,” he panted. “I can’t believe this is finally fucking happening.”

He slipped in a little deeper. Only a bit. Not to the hilt. Pulled out. And moaned. I crammed every single sensation, every single noise into my long-term memory bank. Didn’t need my online-banking password any more. Cian’s cries of ecstasy bouncing off the bathroom walls were significantly more important.

“Ohhh, gods, Mash. You feel . . .” He whined again. “Is that okay? Am I hurting you?”

“No, not hurting me.” My words were throaty, too breathy. I wondered if he even heard them.

“Good, because I need to fuck you now.”

“Yes, please,” was all I could say before Cian drove all the way inside me, only stopping when the metal teeth of his fly bit into my ass cheeks. I moaned, pillowed my face on my forearm.

Fuck, I was full. I felt like a piece of firewood ready to become two smaller pieces, and Cian’s cock was the axe.

I’d always joked that Cian had a massive cock, but in fact, it was entirely average for his height. Cute, what with his little sweater, but still average. A fact I was now extremely thankful for.

“Still okay?”

This time I couldn’t answer him with words. So I nodded. He reached forward and wrapped his fingers around my dick.

“Sometimes, getting fucked can feel too intense on its own. I find it helps to do this. Gives your brain another sensation to focus on.” He moved his fist in tender strokes.

“Yes,” I tried to say. “It helps.” But my words barely left my throat.

“Good. Good boy. Such a good fucking boy, Mash.” He took his hand away and then guided my own to where his had been, and his hips began bucking, like he was trying to hold himself back but was failing spectacularly.

So I fucked my own fist for the second time that evening, as my best friend, the guy I’d known longest and loved the most, fucked me in the ass. His hands grabbed at every part of my flesh he could reach—my hips, my stomach, shoulders, tail—as he built up his pace.

I’d never been more conflicted in my entire life. I wanted this moment to last forever, slow it right down and savour each second, or at least stretch it out into the dawn. But at the same time, I was desperate to feel the heat of his release as he came inside me.

I was panting like a dog, sweating, and—I remembered—still covered in piss and cum. Cian made the cutest, hottest little grunts that echoed through my core. My own squeaks of pleasure were exactly that, squeaks, each time he hit that magic spot inside me.

“Mash, are you close?” he said, grabbing frantically at my hips. “My knot is . . . it’s right there. Fuck. Are you ready for me?”

“So fucking ready,” I whimpered.

“Are you sure?” He was out of breath.

“Yes. Do it now. Come inside me.”

“Oh, gods.”

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