Page 52 of Worthy

A chorus of grunts echo around us as we rut together. Feeling brave, I let my finger wander over his crown, working its way under the lip of his foreskin so I can massage his head. Apparently, that’s like the key to nirvana since he braces one arm on the back of the couch and changesthe angle of his hips so he’s driving his cock against mine, his thrusts bordering on frantic.

Yes, please.

My dick is on fire, flames of rapture mounting and receding with each stroke, the heat of impending detonation steadily climbing from root to tip. It’s agony and ecstasy swirling together in a vortex of pleasure that consumes my senses, robbing me of sight and sound and taste—everything but the thrill coiling in my groin.

For one brief second, time stops, and all I know is the sweet sensation of floating.

Then I erupt.

Wrapping my hand around the back of Madd’s neck, I pull him to me, crushing our mouths together. My tongue licks into his mouth once, twice, before all I can do is hold him to me and breathe his air while my cock pulses in his fist.

The shuttling fist comes to a stop as moisture spills over my dick, and Madd’s hips slow to a leisurely roll before falling still. For several long minutes, we stay like that, panting, foreheads pressed together, cocks snug in his grip, and truth be told I don’t find it uncomfortable. His weight is sort of reassuring, his woodsy orange scent calming. And the fingers that move from the back of the couch to sift through my hair…they’re downright soothing.

“You okay?” he asks softly, pulling back just enough to see my face.

“Are you asking if I’m on the verge of freaking out because my dick is touching yours?”

“Yes.”

“I’m okay. In case it wasn’t obvious, I like having my dick touch yours. A lot.”

“I like it too.” Madd’s full lips part slightly with that admission, and before I can consider the implications, I find mine touching themsoftly. It’s not a thank you, not really, although I do feel gratitude for what we just did. And it’s nice how he’s checking in even despite the fact it’s not necessary. More than that though, I just wanted to taste him without the air of lust influencing the moment.

That’s a first.

Before I can dwell on this development, a stomach growls. Whether it’s mine or his I’m not sure, but the sound makes me realize I am hungry.

“Should we finish making dinner?” I look up into the gray eyes that skew a little silver on his now sated face.

“Yeah.” He climbs off me with a timid smile and hands me my clothes before dressing himself, and we make our way to the kitchen to finish cooking.

After washing our hands, we work in silence, but once we’re done and seated at the table with a bottle of wine, the conversation flows.

We talk about everything and nothing at the same time. Favorite movies, favorite foods, favorite books… Well, his, since I’m not much of a reader. We talk about why we love the outdoors, and our families. Though our backgrounds are wildly different since he grew up privileged and my childhood was nothing but average. Still, we both seem to have parents that are genuinely supportive, even if they don’t understand us.

For him, that makes it even more important to prove himself and make his parents proud, which contributes to his independent streak.

For me, my parents’ support is an excuse to act like a kid longer than I should. I leave that part unspoken, though, since he’s so determined to think I’m a better person than I am, and I don’t want to ruin that right now—not entirely. I don’t think we’ll ever come to an agreement on that topic, anyway.

After we’re finished eating and cleaning up, I’m struggling with whether I’m supposed to stay or go when Maddox suggests a movie. He picks something on live TV, a comedy, I think. I’m barely paying attention to the screen because as soon as he sits down, he leans into my side, and I can’t focus on anything except the sensation of his body next to mine. His hand resting on my thigh.

I’m not a cuddler. I’ve never had an occasion to just hold someone, and it’s not something I ever expected to do. Maybe that’s because holding someone never seemed like it would feel anywhere near as good as sex, and in my mind, if it wasn’t as good as sex, there wasn't a reason to do it. Now, I have to admit, his warm body curled against mine is pleasant. Comfortable. Except for the fact, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do in return.

Do I just sit here and let him lean against me? Hold his hand? Put my arm around him? The latter seems like it’d be the most natural in this situation. Taking care to jostle him as little as possible, I lift my arm and rest it on the back of his shoulders, which makes it so his head is propped against my chest.

The extra weight over my lungs makes me hyper aware of each breath. I try to keep them shallow, so I’m not moving too much, but that only seems to make my heart beat faster. It doesn’t help that I can smell the lingering evidence of us on his skin, but I’m determined not to do anything to suggest I’m just biding my time until I can get him naked.

I really am content to just have him close.

Madd isn’t, though.

That is, if his wandering hand is any indication.

I try my hardest to focus on the movie, to make this time with him abouthim, not sex. But as his fingers hesitantly glide over my thigh, my cock starts to swell, and as soon as he notices the traitor at half-mastunderneath my shorts, he hyper-fixates on it, tracing the outline from base to tip and back again. He even outlines the divot of its mushroom head and that sends a thrill up my spine he doesn’t ignore.

I’m not used to other people taking the lead, though when they do, in my experience it was always aggressive. Desperate. Not slow and curious and sensual. Not like this.

This is torture. Slow, gentle, blissful torture.

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