Page 34 of Mayfly

“Stop!… Don’t stop.” There’s a fire in his voice as his hands fly to my hips to harshly pull me down until my balls are pressed hot against his ass. “Fuck!” he cries out, every muscle in his body seizing at the intrusion.

I hold still for as long as I can, for as long as my sanity will allow, before slowly drawing my hips back. But Curren has other ideas. Gripping my biceps, he wraps his legs around my waist and draws his lower body upwards, forcing me back inside him.

“Who’s fucking who?”

“You promised you'd make it hurt.”

I slam his body back to the tiles with a thrust that has the bath mat sliding beneath him.

Prying his legs from around me, I push them against his chest and watch his face contort through a million different expressions as I fuck him like my life depends on it. Because it does.

I can’t go back from this.

Curren Campbell is my endgame.

He writhes beneath me, his fingers digging into my forearms as he tries to keep eye contact.

The scent of him is everywhere, wrapping around me and sinking into my pores.

“More,” he cries.

I grip him tighter, my veins corded with the strain as I push his legs further so I can drive deeper.

Each thrust presses him harder into the unforgiving ceramic beneath him.

His harsh grunts drown in the humidity of the room, ricocheting off the damp tiles and echoing back to us.

The sight of him fucked out below me, eyes glazed over, biting his bottom lip so hard blood is blooming, has me drunk and unnervingly possessive.

“Is this what you want?”

“More.” His head jars with each of my thrusts. “Harder.”

I can’t deny him, not when he begs so well. So I increase my pace, my movements rough and unrelenting.

“Don’t stop!”

How could I when he feels this good? When the heat of him is like being wrapped in the sun. When every twitch of him drives me closer to a high I’ll be fighting to match for the rest of my life.

“Jude,” he gasps out; desperate.

“Say. It. Again.”

“Jude,” he repeats, louder this time—punctuating it with a strangled scream as I hit him just right, again and again.

Sweat drips from my forehead and onto his chest.

Leaning back on my heels, I pull him up onto my lap.

My hands span his back, my fingers pressing into scars and sinewy planes of muscle as I guide his back against the bath.

He can barely hold himself up.

He’s on another plane of existence.

With one hand on his waist, I reach between us and he lets out another choked cry when my fingers brush over the tip of his cock; shiny and pink, glossed in pre-cum.

I pump him hard.

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