Page 88 of Hot Mess Express
The bed is bumping against the wall now, loudly.
The lamp on the right nightstand flickers in time with every shove of my dick into Anthony.
Whatever shouts and moaning we heard through the wall, all of it is drowned out by our own.
“Oh my god, I’m gonna come all over the bed,” he wheezes, in a state of delirium. “I’m close already. Again. I can’t believe it. Not even touchin’ it. Are you close? B-Bridge? Fuck.”
“Better hold off,” I warn him, “or you’re just gonna be my toy doll, dangling in my grip, helpless, while I fuck my cum into you.”
Apparently that only turns him on twenty times more. “Jesus, stop talkin’ so dirty like that, I’m serious, I’m gonna blow.”
“Not yet you aren’t, boy.”
“Boy? Did you just call me—?” His fingers claw into the sheets. The bed is now slamming full-force against the wall and creaking indifferently. The bulb in the right lamp goes out. “B-Bridge!”
“Not yet.” Every time I speak, I get a little more demanding. Every time he whimpers back in protest, he gets more helpless. Is this what he imagined? When he begged me to go rough?
I pull out, flip him over without warning, hook my arms under his legs, then slide right back into his ass. On his back now, he gets a full view of me gripping him tight and fuckinghim relentlessly. His eyes are glued to mine and his mouth won’t close, like he’s in awe of how quickly and effortlessly I rose to the challenge.
He’ll think twice next time he throws a gauntlet.
Anthony grabs his cock, but doesn’t stroke it. Is he trying to strangle the guy to prevent himself from coming early again?
There’s a surprisingly mirthful giggle that comes through the wall. Obviously Juniper. But then comes a loud snapping noise, like a whip, followed by a deep, guttural shout. Was that a cry of pain or redoubled ecstasy?
Poor Pete. What’s he gotten himself into?
“I want to come so hard,” groans Anthony.
Looking down at his face, it’s harder not to just give in to him. The sweet sparkle in his eyes. Dimples that pop out when his face squirms in just the right way. How his forehead scrunches up in that way that looks both cute and angry as he fights to hold back.
“Come inside me,” he begs. “If you can. Please. Come in me.”
He only had to ask once.
Like an early surprise of my own, I rush suddenly over the edge, and then it’s my own face I can’t control as I drop my jaw, all my breaths turn vocal and deep, and I spill inside Anthony. He must be able to feel it, because at once he starts whimpering out like a puppy trying to sing, practically squealing, as he shoots all over his chest and stomach. Neither of us stop, even after it seems we’ve come all we can, as I pump him hard and long, and he cries out in unapologetic pleasure. These old, crumbling walls have no hope of containing us. Every room in this place just heard the joy of two men celebrating having reached their climaxes together.
I just stand there after we’re done, my eyes on Anthony’s, him looking back up at me, as we catch our breath.
“That was so hot,” he whimpers.
“Yeah,” I agree, breathless. I nod down at him. “You okay?”
“More than okay. Perfect. Fuckin’ delirious.” After a moment, his smile drops. “Will you, uh … Will you stay with me? Tonight? Like … here with me? In this bed? Can you sleep with me?”
It’s not so much the question, but how he asks it. Vulnerable. Scared. As if I was planning to just leave now that we’ve finished.
Then another loud snapping noise rings out through the wall, followed by Pete’s unmistakable yelp—and another girlish giggle.
I lift my eyebrows, genuinely surprised, as I glance up at the wall. Anthony does the same, twisting his head around to get a quick look before turning back to me, questions in his eyes. Then he cracks a smile. I do too. Then Anthony bursts into laughter, and suddenly I do as well, unable to stop it, until the cackling pair of us drop onto the bed, side-by-side in hysterics.
I put a bill into the vending machine.
It spits it back out for the sixth time in a row.
From around the corner comes a comically disheveled Pete, his hair sticking up everywhere. There’s a mysterious mark on his arm. Three, actually. He’s walking funny. And his shirt is buttoned one off, looking askew.
He stops when he sees me. “Bridge,” he says, exhausted.
