Page 56 of A Man To Remember
There's a skeptical look on his face, but he puts his hand into my front pocket anyway. I let him rummage around for a bit, trying not to chuckle while his fingers brush against my keys, my wallet, some loose change, and the side of my cock. Only then do I say, "The other pocket."
He swats my chest and moves to the other side, and my heart hammers as I feel his fingers swirl around until they come to a stop, presumably now touching one of the two packets I stashed there. Lube or condom. I can't tell which.
I know he realizes what he's touching because his whole face shifts. It's like watching a movie on fast-forward as his expression goes from curious to shocked to horny and back to curious again in the span of two seconds.
"Jesse…"
I try for a teasing tone and go for a nonchalant shrug that probably looks anything but. "Since we were short last time."
His eyebrows shoot up so high they almost disappear into his hairline. "Last time?" Then he looks around like he's just realizing where we are and lowers his voice as if someone's eavesdropping. "You aren't suggesting— Now?Here?"
I laugh, finding his sudden panic absolutely adorable. "I think these walls can handle it. They've seen some stuff."
He takes a sharp breath, probably to argue, but before he can speak, I sneak one hand between us and massage his cock through his jeans.
The effect is immediate and spectacular. His mouth falls open, whatever protest he was about to make dying on his tongue. His eyelids go heavy as he tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat.
I can't help but lean in and suck on the side of his neck. I don't stop until his cock is fully hard under my touch.
"You were saying?"
He shakes his head. "I wasn't saying anything."
It's a pure mess after that.
Clothes start flying off our bodies like we both have the same idea at the exact same moment and execution time is right fucking now. His hands are everywhere—tugging at my shirt, working my belt, pushing fabric aside with an urgency that matches my own frantic movements.
Our limbs get in each other's way, and it takes us twice as long as it would if we weren't suddenly so impatient. His shirt gets caught on his watch, the fabric twisting around themetal band, and I have to help him untangle it while he's trying to undo my jeans with one hand. My pants tangle around my ankles, and we're both laughing and cursing and trying to undress each other while simultaneously trying not to fall over.
There's something beautifully chaotic about it, this desperate scramble to get naked. None of the smooth choreography you see in movies, just two people who want each other so badly they can barely coordinate their limbs properly.
I kick my shoes off, sending one flying across the room where it hits the wall with a dull thud. He manages to get his shirt over his head, and the sight of his bare chest makes me forget temporarily that I still have one sock on.
When we're finally naked, we're both breathing like we've been running a marathon instead of just getting undressed.
The air conditioning hits my overheated skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest, but I barely notice. All my attention is focused on him—the way his cock curves slightly upward, head red, and swollen, and already leaking.
I take a step forward, already tasting the phantom sensation of his lips against mine, my body moving on autopilot toward what I want most. But Austin takes a step back at the same time, hands raised like he's stopping traffic, and I freeze mid-motion.
"What—"
"Wait."
That one word shuts me up completely. His voice is deep, authoritative in a way that makes my cock twitch and sends heat pooling in my belly.
He takes another step back, putting more space between us, and his eyes start roaming up and down my body like he'strying to memorize every freckle, every scar, every place where muscle meets bone.
Then he adds, "I want to look at you."
A tiny gasp escapes me, and there's this nudge to cover myself up, some leftover modesty trying to assert itself. But the urge to please the man in front of me is stronger, so I straighten up, and take a step back so he can get the full view.
Then I grab my cock and give myself a few long, lazy strokes, watching his face as I do it.
His pupils blow wide, and he groans like he's in physical pain. Like I'm denying him. Like he isn't just two steps away, free to touch, to claim, to do whatever he feels like doing.
What Austin feels like doing throws me for a complete loop.
"Can I take a picture?"
