Page 69 of The Official Problem
“God, you’re perfect,” he moaned, giving up on suppressing his hard-on. His jeans were painfully tight. “Is that for me?”
His throat went dry with want.
“This?” Kieran ran a palm along the bulge, squeezing his shaft. His stomach spasmed under the touch. The flutter of muscle unlocked something primal in Matthieu.
“Take it out. Let me see that pretty cock.”
Kieran groaned low, lifting his hips to tug the fabric down one-handed. His dick slapped against his abs as it sprang free.
The phone jostled, and Matthieu lost sight of him for a moment. Then he was back, phone propped against something on the nightstand, giving Matthieu a heart-stopping view of Kieran’s long, toned body stretched across the bed. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other tracing lazy circles over his obliques.
A fucking work of art.
“The things I’d do to you if I were there. Stroke yourself for me, sweetheart.”
Kieran obeyed, like the good boy he was. He dragged a slow finger from root to tip, through the precum already leaking from his slit. Matthieu watched, rapt, as Kieran stroked himself with long, slow pulls: unhurried, teasing, torturous.
He couldn’t see Kieran’s face, but he could picture the look in his eyes. It was seared into his memory. The way Kieran’s lips parted in pleasure. The way his gaze turned glassy as he neared the edge. The flush across his cheeks. The frantic little pants as he fought to hold off release a second longer.
“You look so fucking good. Such a tease.”
“Says you,” Kieran panted, breathy and quick. “You the only one who gets a show?” He turned his face on the pillow, dark eyes looking up at Matthieu through thick lashes. “Let me see you.”
“I’m right here, sweetheart.”
“Matty, please.”
God, he loved when Kieran begged. It never got old. Kieran could make him do anything with those puppy-dog eyes and that whined word—the e long and drawn-out.
“Such a brat.” He chuckled, shifting a pillow to the end of the bed to prop his phone against and shucked out of his clothes, not wanting to waste another second.
The view was obscene: Matthieu’s legs spread, balls drawn near the camera, dick hard and heavy above neatly trimmed pubes. Kieran groaned as Matthieu squirted lube into his palm and wrapped his fist around his cock. He pushed his head into the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, imagining his palm was the warm, tight heat of Kieran’s ass.
God, he loved fucking him. Loved having him writhing beneath him. Loved watching him straddle his hips, those sinful hockey thighs riding him into oblivion.
“I’m already so fucking close,” Matthieu gasped as he stroked faster, chasing the edge.
Tension coiled low in his belly, every nerve sparking like a live wire. On screen, Kieran had abandoned teasing. He fisted himself in earnest, mouth parted in a silent moan, chest rising and falling in frantic bursts.
They unraveled together. Kieran’s name spilled from Matthieu’s lips like a prayer. His spine arched, muscles locking tight as release crashed over him in waves. He came with a shout, hot ropes of cum splashing across his hand and belly. Stars exploded behind his eyelids. Kieran’s groan followed a second later, shuddering and desperate.
For a few suspended moments, nothing existed but their ragged breathing and the rapid thrum of Matthieu’s heart. He let his arm fall limp to the side, fingers twitching with aftershocks. When Matthieu finally came around, Kieran was blinking up at him with a soft, hazy smile. Still naked, the sheet draped low across his waist.
“I love watching you fall apart,” Kieran whispered. “I wish I could hold you.”
Matthieu’s throat tightened. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to move and reached for the tissues on his nightstand. He wiped off quickly and pulled on clean boxers before climbingback into bed. He shifted the phone closer on the pillow, propping it up at the perfect angle to see Kieran’s face.
Matthieu closed his eyes, imagining Kieran’s arms wrapped around him. That strong body under his hand. The warmth of Kieran’s skin against his own. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel it: the slow, steady rise of Kieran’s chest, the gentle circles he’d trace on Matthieu’s back, the whisper-soft kisses he’d press into his hair.
“Don’t go,” he whispered. The words were small, but he didn’t care. “Not yet.”
“I won’t,” Kieran promised. He clicked off the bedside light, plunging the screen into darkness. “I’m right here.”
Matthieu inhaled deeply and pulled the blankets over his head, tucking himself into a dark cocoon where he could pretend, just a little longer, that Kieran was beside him. He listened to Kieran’s soft, steady breathing, barely audible over the phone. The familiar cadence soothed him like a lullaby.
“How many days do you have off over Christmas?” Kieran asked as sleep pulled Matthieu under.
“Three,” he muttered back.
