Page 42 of The Official Problem
“You,” he groaned, trying to turn, but Matthieu gripped his shoulder, pushing him back against the glass. “Matty, only you.”
“Did you think about my tongue?” Matthieu asked, sheathing himself. Kieran shook his head. “My fingers?”
Another shake. Matthieu squirted lube into his palm and slicked his length.
“Tell me,” he demanded, notching the head of his cock against Kieran’s entrance but refusing to press in. “Come on, sweetheart, I want to hear it.”
“I thought about your dick splitting me open. Ah, fuck!” Kieran had barely finished the sentence before Matthieu slammed into him, one brutal thrust to the hilt.
Kieran screamed out, hands clawing at the smooth glass, eyes screwed shut. His mouth was open, jaw slack, brow furrowed. Matthieu’s stomach dropped. Had he been too rough?Had he hurt him? He froze, swallowing panic, scanning Kieran’s face for any clue, any sign.
Then Kieran’s eyes opened, locking with Matthieu’s. No pain. No hurt. No betrayal. Just red-hot, burning desire. Matthieu pressed his palm between Kieran’s shoulder blades, fingers curling possessively around the base of his neck.
“Okay?”
“Fuck, yes.”
Kieran’s head dropped back into the contact. He wriggled against Matthieu, desperate for movement. Matthieu gripped that same bruised spot on his hip to still him.
“I swear to God, if you don’t start moving, Matty…”
Matthieu pulled back, almost all the way out. “I told you not to call me that,” he snarled, then slammed back into him.
Kieran’s ass was absolute heaven, tight, hot, perfect. The ridges inside gripped Matthieu as he thrust in and out. Matthieu didn’t hold back. His pace was fast. Brutal. He fucked with purpose, not giving Kieran, moaning and panting, a chance to breathe. Matthieu funneled all his anger, frustration, weeks and months and years of stress and heartbreak into fucking Kieran into the wall.
It felt impossibly good.
Kieran spread his legs wider, bracing on his forearms against the mirror, back arching. The angle shift let Matthieu sink deeper, triggering tremors that tore through Kieran’s body as he pegged his prostate again and again and again.
“Just like that,” Kieran whimpered. “God, I’m gonna feel you for days.”
That thought made Matthieu feral. He wouldn’t last much longer—not with Kieran muttering curses under his breath, not with him meeting every thrust, spurring Matthieu on. Not with his cock leaking and smearing perverse little marks across the mirror every time Matthieu drove him into it. Matthieu picturedthe poor hotel cleaner scrubbing those smudges off the glass. Would they know? Would they realize what he’d done here, what he’d done to Kieran goddamn Lloyd?
“Shit,” Matthieu gritted out.
His orgasm barreled through him out of nowhere, racing down his spine. His balls drew up tight, then released almost painfully as cum filled the condom. He tried to fuck Kieran through it, but his legs turned to jelly. The bones disintegrated right along with his heart.
Matthieu gripped the base of the condom as he pulled out. He spun Kieran around, pressed his back to the glass, and dropped to his knees. Honestly, whatever this mirror was made of had to be military-grade to survive this kind of abuse.
He took Kieran’s weeping cock into his mouth, swallowing around him, sucking, slurping, tongue tracing the thick vein Matthieu knew ran underneath. Kieran fisted Matthieu’s hair, hips jerking without rhythm, his thrusts erratic as he chased his release before tumbling over the edge. Matthieu swallowed every drop like it was his first drink after days without water. He licked up the sticky remnants, cleaning Kieran with the flat of his tongue until he was squirming, oversensitive.
He popped off and looked up at Kieran from his knees. For a moment, they just… gazed at one another.
The look in Kieran’s eyes was unsettlingly tender, warm, and searching, like sunlight filtering through a half-drawn curtain. Too soft. Too revealing. It made Matthieu feel exposed, like under that light, Kieran could see the truth buried in all his darkness, like he could see the memories that kept him up at night, the guilt that had blackened his heart.
He didn’t like being cut open like this—seen, maybe even… understood? It was too much to face. That one look might be enough to pull him the rest of the way apart at the seams.
The shrill squawk of an alarm shattered the trance. Kieran stepped aside from where Matthieu still had him pinned against the mirror. The wood frame creaked as the pressure vanished. He raked a hand through his sweaty, disheveled blond hair, brown eyes hazy. Kieran looked well and truly fucked out.
“I have to get to the arena,” Kieran said, nodding vaguely toward the bathroom or maybe the door. “I need to rinse off real fast.”
Matthieu suddenly realized he was still kneeling on the floor in front of the mirror. His reflection mocked him—how weak he looked.
“Right. I’ll get going, then.” He hauled himself up, slipped off the condom, tied it, and tucked himself back into his pants. At least he was still dressed. The imbalance—Kieran naked, Matthieu fully clothed—helped him feel a little less exposed.
“You better stay put,” Kieran murmured, making Matthieu raise a questioning brow. “Most of the team’s on this floor. The hallway will be a minefield for the next fifteen minutes. No way you’re escaping without someone noticing.”
Unfortunately, Kieran was right. Even now, Matthieu could hear doors opening and closing down the hall. Voices carried—teammates laughing, greeting each other, knocking on doors as they passed. Damn, these walls were paper-thin. Matthieu flushed, wondering who shared the wall he’d fucked Kieran against. Neither of them had been quiet.
