Page 16 of A Man To Remember
But Jesse's melting under my touch like he was forged in fire and I'm the only thing that can cool him down. Pliant and responsive and so fucking beautiful I could weep actual tears if I weren't too angry to cry. His skin is warm silk under my palms, muscle and bone and all the fantasies I used to torture myself with made flesh and blood and real enough to touch.
The dragon tattoo ripples with each breath he takes, scales shifting in the studio lights, and I trace its outline with my thumb like I'm claiming territory I never thought I'd get to explore. Every ridge of muscle, every dip and hollow, every place where shadow meets light—it's all mine now, at least for this moment, and I'm greedy enough to take everything he's offering.
The contrast between us is stark and makes my cock throb against my zipper. Jesse in nothing but those thin boxer briefs that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and thetie hanging loose around his neck like a collar waiting for someone to pull. Meanwhile, I'm fully clothed, every thread and seam a barrier between his skin and mine, a reminder of who holds the power in this equation.
The dynamic is intoxicating, a complete reversal of every fantasy I used to have where I was the one vulnerable, the one exposed, the one wanting something I could never have.
Now he is the one wanting, and I'm the one who gets to decide how this plays out.
I use that control like a weapon.
My hands map every inch of exposed skin while Jesse can only clutch at my clothes, trying to find purchase on fabric instead of flesh. Trying to level the playing field and failing beautifully. I set the pace of our kisses, deep and demanding and absolutely unforgiving, swallowing the little sounds he makes like I'm collecting them for later, storing them away to sustain me when this inevitably falls apart.
When he tries to slow it down, make it softer, more tender—more like the romantic bullshit I used to dream about—I grip his hair and pull his head back, exposing the long line of his throat.
"Austin," he breathes, and hearing my name fall from his lips like that, desperate and needy and wrecked, sends heat to my cock like a direct neural pathway.
I don't answer with words—words are for people who trust each other, and I don't trust Jesse Walsh as far as I can throw him.
Instead, I press my thigh between his legs, feeling his hard-on through the thin fabric. The heat of him burns throughmy jeans, proof that this isn't just pity or curiosity or some misguided attempt at making amends.
Jesse's gasp is sharp enough to cut diamonds, his hips bucking forward instinctively, seeking friction like his body knows what it wants even if his brain hasn't caught up yet. The movement grinds his cock against my thigh, and I can feel him through the layers—thick and hard and leaking already.
The sound he makes when I grind back goes straight to my balls like a direct hit.
It's raw and unfiltered, nothing like the careful noises people make when they're trying to sound sexy for the camera. This is Jesse losing control, Jesse forgetting to be anything other than desperate for what I'm giving him, and it's more erotic than any staged performance I've ever captured.
We find a rhythm that's both foreign and familiar, like muscle memory from a life I never lived. Jesse rolling his hips against my thigh while I grind against him. It's high school desperation with adult intensity, clumsy and perfect and nothing like I imagined it would be during all those nights I spent jerking off to thoughts of him.
Because in my fantasies, I was always gentle with him. Always reverent. Always grateful for whatever scrap of attention he might throw my way, like a dog begging for table scraps. I would worship him with my mouth and hands and tell him how beautiful he was, how lucky I felt to be chosen, how I'd do anything to make him happy.
This is nothing like that.
Every thrust is a question carved into his skin.
How does it feel to want something you can't fully have?
Every kiss is an accusation written in teeth marks.
This is what you did to me, made me crave what was always just out of reach.
Every time I pull away just when he's getting close to losing it completely, it's payback for every time he walked past me without a glance.
Welcome to my fucking adolescence.
But Jesse doesn't seem to mind the punishment.
If anything, he craves it, following my lead with an eagerness that makes my chest tight and my throat close up with unwelcome emotions. When I grab the tie around his neck and use it to pull him into a bruising kiss, he moans into my mouth like I've given him everything he's ever wanted wrapped up in a bow.
The silk is soft against my knuckles, a stark contrast to the harsh sounds we're both making, the wet slide of mouths and the friction of skin against fabric.
I wrap it around my fist like a leash.
Like he belongs to me.
Like I finally get to keep something I want instead of watching it slip through my fingers.
Memory fragments flash behind my closed eyelids like a broken film reel someone keeps trying to splice back together.
