Page 54 of Taste

“Never.” He grinned.

“You little bastard.” I grabbed his hand and dragged him back to bed, losing the hoodie and stumbling over the duvet as we tumbled onto the pile of blankets and pillows, him laughing and me trying to wrestle him out of the damn bathrobe.

“I love you so bloody much,” he murmured into my mouth. “I promise not to freak out.”

“I think you should fuck me,” I said. “Hard and fast, face down into the bed. Don’t let yourself stop and think, just do it.”

“Really?”

“Really. Lots of lube, because I might want a repeat performance later.”

His mouth was warm against mine, my dick already swelling against his leg, and I wriggled clumsily out of my joggers as he magically found the tube of lube from yesterday, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Condom?”

“In the drawer.”

It was a comforting feeling not to have to explain more. We would have time for careful negotiations in the future, but for now, we needed to get this over and done with. We needed to, as he’d so eloquently put it, fuck the living daylights out of each other until we felt normal again. To get rid of the tense drama surrounding the two of us in bed. We’d put the world to rights last night, whispered and giggled in bed, and we’d talked, properly talked. He’d told me about his life. I’d told him about mine. Just ordinary stories of growing up. Broken bones and birthday parties. He’d told me in detail how to bottle-feed a lamb. I’d been stunned into silence. Then I’d almost passed out when he talked about c-sectioning baby chickens who couldn’t get out of their shells. Finn was a farm boy, and I was a spoiled brat who’d grown up very differently. I promised to take him home and show him my favourite muddy beaches that I’d loved to roam as a child. He promised never to take me anywhere near his family’s remote farm.

We had issues all right, but none of them were important right now as he flipped me over and pressed his thumb down between my buttocks. His fingers followed it in, finding my entrance and burrowing inside me.

I loved that it was him doing this to me, and that this time he was naked. His warm skin against my back, his dick hard against my hip, his lips trailing kisses along my shoulder blades.

“Not too much. Just loosen me up a bit,” I instructed as he pushed in deep, rubbing against my prostate. He was good, knew what he was doing, and I kind of hated that he hadn’t let me look after him, because I was damn good at this stuff too.

“You’ll get your turn,” he whispered, like he could read my thoughts. “I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”

“Come on then,” I grunted. “Do it. No time to dawdle with so many fucks to give.”

“Fucks will be given. I can promise you that. Just look at you.”

“I’m kind of average. And you’re cute when you’re finger-fucking me.”

“God no, you’re beautiful. Your back, your shoulders. I’m just… argh, love this.” He was on his knees by my side, one palm smoothing over my skin while the fingers of his other hand pistoned in and out of me. He withdrew and flicked the lid off the lube, drizzling it like syrup over his fingertips.

I wriggled up onto my knees and spread my arse, holding it open for him.

“Fuck me, Finley.”

“Damn.” His breath hitched, and then he jammed his fingers back inside me.

“More,” I begged and took another deep thrust, grunting and closing my eyes at the sensation.

“Want another finger? Might hurt.”

“Try,” I panted. I was getting to that lovely state where my body was shivering with every touch. Where his fingers were no longer enough. And there it was, insane pressure as he pushed what I assumed was three fingers inside of me.

“Fuck.” Yeah. Hurt. But dammit, good hurt.

“Look at you. You are incredible. Look at you.”

“I would look if I could, but right now, I really would prefer if you could just fuck me.”

“Impatient, are we, Mr Quinton?”

Fuck, I loved him.

“Mr Christensen, it would be highly advisable for you to ram that thick cock of yours into my arse. I would be most happy to accommodate your manhood at this time.”

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