Page 28 of Unlocked Dive
“How did you sleep?” he asks, amusement in his voice like he can hear my thoughts. I drag myself back from the abyss to meet his gaze.
“Like the dead,” I say. “But I was kind of hoping to wake up with my dick wedged between your cheeks.” I punctuate the admission by squeezing the ass in question and grinding my erection into the crease at his hip. His own cock thickens in response.
“I thought you liked being the little spoon,” he teases, nuzzling at my jaw. The memory of my back pressed into the warm curve of his body while he jacked me off with a hand curled around my throat flashes through me, and I hum in his grip.
“I like it all.Any way you want me, remember?”
He doesn’t protest when I back him up against the wall, instead taking my face in his hands and bringing his mouth to mine. I’m still not sure he’ll ever let me top him, but fuck if I’m going to stop trying. And in the meantime…
God, I could get drunk on his kisses.
For everything he holds back elsewhere, he kisses with abandon. This one starts as an indulgence, deliberate, tasting every corner of my mouth until the answer to the question is an overwhelmingyes. I fall against him, boneless, my hands on the warm tile at his back, my throbbing cock nestled against his, and his hands on my jaw the only things holding me up.
He moans into my mouth, and my pulse quickens, sparking along my limbs and flooding me with need.
More.
Andmine.
Gasping for control, I pull away and reach for the body wash on the small corner shelf.
“My turn,” I tell him, flashing a breathless grin. “Hands on the wall.”
When he hesitates, I kiss him again, harder this time, and then bite down on his lower lip. He drops his hands with a hiss, his pupils dilating to swallow the gold-green fire in his eyes. The steam swells with the scent of almonds as I squirt some of the soap into my palm and stroke it up his shaft, and his head falls back against the tile.
“Let go, and I’ll stop,” I warn, half teasing, half not, and then step into him, wrapping my hand around us both.
He shudders as I glide my fingers up and squeeze our heads together, before rubbing my thumb in a rough circle over his slit. My other hand holds him still against the wall while I pump both our lengths, rocking my hips and reveling in the sinful glide of skin on skin.
“Fuck.” It’s half curse, half growl, and now his eyes are locked on my hand. “So fucking hot.” His fingers flex and clench at his sides, and his voice is strained. “You have such a beautiful fucking cock.”
“Holy shit.” My grip stutters, steadies, slows. “I’m gonna come if you keep talking like that.”
“Jesus.Don’tstop.” His hand comes up and closes around mine, and I don’t care that he’s breaking the rules, because now he’s thrusting all along my cock, and our fingers are interlaced and firm, and I’m surging into the exquisite friction, matching his rhythm.
I need him to come first. I’m frantic for it, so I wrap the wet fall of his hair in my fist and yank his head back.
“Come, come, come,” I chantbreathlessly against the hollow of his pulse, and then I sink my teeth into the swell of muscle at the crook of his neck.
“Echo.” My name is a hoarse howl to a pagan god, torn from his throat. His head slams back into the tiles and his dick pulses under my fingers, andthankyoufuckinggodIfuckingmadeit.
Because it’s too late to stop. I’m spiraling, soaring, shooting, shattering. But at least he falls to pieces with me.
“You broke the rules,” I say eventually. We’re both sitting on the floor under the spray, sprawled and senseless, and thank god for on-demand hot water heaters, or we’d be freezing too. “Does that mean I get to spank you now?”
“I’m breaking a lot of rules.”For you.
He doesn’t say it, but I hear it anyway. I’m too cum-drunk to feel guilty.
“So what next?” I ask instead. “Shopping for lube?”
“Next, breakfast,” he replies, laughing and shoving at my thigh with his foot. “And then we train.”
If I was expecting Byrd’s magic dick to automatically fix me, it doesn’t happen. The traitorous battle between instinct and insecurity still rears its head, short-circuiting my brain any time my hand is called on to release and regrip. Butsomethingis different. When the panic hits and I search for Byrd, he’s full of confidence now, instead of concern, and it’s hard to hold on to my fear when he refuses to show me his. So I breathe and push and steal wet, sloppy kisses in between tries.
We spend a long, hot afternoon in mid-May setting up his outdoor rig, shirtless and laughing and taking every excuse to put our hands on each other. It’s there, under the dappled redwood shadows, that I really see him fly for the first time, and something shifts inside me.
Freedom.
